


Gathering Clouds

by Gimli_s_Pickaxe (orphan_account)



Series: Chasing Spring [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, God!Merlin AU, Growth, M/M, Mortality, Powerful Merlin, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26815162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Gimli_s_Pickaxe
Summary: As Arthur grows used to having a god as his manservant, old friends are met, new bonds are forged, and Merlin comes to a painful realization of what being a mortal really means.Part three of the Chasing Spring series.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Chasing Spring [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885876
Comments: 61
Kudos: 215





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellaisnotamermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaisnotamermaid/gifts).



> Much thanks and love goes out to stellaisnotamermaid for the wonderful, wonderful beta! I don't think I could have finished this without you, so thank you so, so much. All remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.  
> Also, to all those who have read, commented on, bookmarked, and/or kudosed the previous works in this series - thank you so much! You all are the best :)

**Gathering Clouds**

Part three of Chasing Spring

_As Arthur slowly gets used to having a god as his manservant, old friends are met, new bonds are forged, and Merlin comes to a painful realization of what being a mortal really means. Part three of the Chasing Spring series._

The very next day Merlin is named Arthur’s manservant, there is news of the unfortunate demise of one of Camelot’s knights. Sir Robert had been well-liked throughout the castle, with a distinctive, booming voice and ruddy cheeks, and Arthur mourns his passing with the rest of his knights.

“I’d heard it had been an accident,” Merlin says, quietly. His eyes are downcast, so Arthur can’t tell what he’s thinking – Merlin’s eyes tend to be so expressive that most of the time, they do all of the talking for him.

“Yes?” Arthur prompts. “I know I’ve told you this before, but Merlin, unlike you, who is all-powerful-” Arthur pokes Merlin good-naturedly, letting the god know it’s all in good fun. “I don’t know how to read minds. You have to tell things to me, you know.”

“It’s just – I don’t understand.” Merlin’s eyes, when they meet Arthur’s, are full of an honest confusion that jolts Arthur to the bone. “How can it be so _easy?_ ”

Sir Robert had died on a hunting trip. One stumble of his horse, and the old knight had been sent careening over the beast’s neck, breaking his neck at once. Merlin looks so human, most of the time, with his pale cheeks and laughing, sparkling eyes, that it’s too easy to forget that he’s anything but. They must all seem like bumbling ants to him, Arthur thinks. One stumble, one wrong press of the thumb, and they are gone, just like that.

Arthur sits down on the bed next to Merlin, putting a hand on his shoulder, hoping it will serve as a solid, reassuring weight to the boy. “I won’t die just because I’ve sneezed so hard, or anything ridiculous like that. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Merlin snorts at the imagery. “I do. But sometimes – it’s the littlest things.” Merlin’s gaze turns downcast, serious. “I keep forgetting how fragile you all are.”

“Oi! I’ll have you know my arms are probably twice as thick as yours,” Arthur says, and Merlin grins back, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Oh, I quake in my boots,” he intones, exaggeratedly solemn. He looks like a fresh-faced youth, then, laughing and innocent, and Arthur thinks, fleeting, that he would like to keep it this way for as long as he can.

Eventually, their laughter subsides, and Merlin takes his hand, squeezing it, sending a sliver of his power through it – reassuring, warm, possessive. “You’ll always be safe,” Merlin says. “You’ll always have me.”

Arthur remembers the wyverns, how Merlin had looked, standing in front of him, eyes blazing with fury. It had felt like there had been a mountain standing between Arthur and the beasts, a wall that none could dare cross.

“Yes,” Arthur says. “So don’t you worry.”

The next few days of Merlin being Arthur’s servant are surprisingly calm.

It had been rather disconcerting at first to see Merlin puttering about in rough browns and that ridiculous neckerchief of his, dusting tables and drawing bathwater – but Arthur had always been quick to adjust to changes, and in several days’ time, he’d even gotten so far as to start ordering Merlin around.

Merlin had responded by thinking up increasingly obnoxious ways to wake Arthur up. A steep price to pay, perhaps, because Merlin can be unbelievably creative about these things – but still, Arthur loves the comfort poking fun at the god brings. The knowledge that he can get away with this, that they’re really lovers, friends, something, not just a god and disciple, master and servant – is more reassuring than anything else, and so Arthur doesn’t stop.

From Merlin’s fond glances Arthur catches from time to time, he suspects the god understands, too.

(“Why do you keep wearing that neckerchief, anyway?” Arthur had asked, once, curious and exasperated in equal measures. “I’ll stop when you stop being so adorably offended about it,” Merlin had said with that cheeky grin of his, and, well, there wasn’t much Arthur could say to that.

He could hardly tell Merlin it was because he was frustrated he couldn’t get a good view of Merlin’s neck that way, after all. Arthur is many things, but even he doesn’t want to end up sounding like a complete craven.)

As these things always go, it is a beautiful spring’s day when trouble strikes.

“Lord Henríque?” Arthur splutters, choking on his sausage. The hot juice splatters down his throat, and Arthur winces, hurriedly bringing his napkin up to mop up the mess.

“Yes,” Uther replies, brow raised at the uncharacteristic loss of dignity. Arthur spots Morgana trying to stifle an amused smirk and failing; he glares at her, hard, and wishes he had magical powers so he could make her trip on her skirts in front of the entire court. “His cooperation is crucial to Camelot’s well-being, as you well know. You will have to entertain him well.”

Arthur knows Henríque well enough. A blustering young lord with a foreign lordship from his mother’s side and more money than he knows what to do with, he is as unpleasant as these men go: sniffing down his nose at ‘sweaty knights’, clad in such an abundance of jewels that he could pass as a jeweler’s wagon at first glance, confident in his riches and expecting anyone and everyone to bow down to his whims at once.

He is unpleasant, but Arthur will survive. He’s entertained him for the past five years without fail, after all. All the man needs is some good old-fashioned flattery, plenty of wine and drink and food, and Arthur is set to go.

But the man is also notorious for his taste in bed-mates, unfortunately. Said bed-mates being servants, more often than not, with no choice but to cater to his wishes or be kicked out of the castle, starving, not a penny in their hands.

He is said to have a soft spot for sprightly young boys.

Arthur pictures the giant grease-ball of a man propositioning Merlin, Merlin saying no, lord Henríque pulling out his threats, maybe a well-aimed slap or two, and then -

No. Arthur likes the castle in one piece, thank you very much.

“-Is there a problem? Arthur? Arthur?” Uther calls, displeasure written clear as in ink across his face, and Arthur is snapped out of his reverie. “No, father,” he replies, and makes quick work of the remainder of the eggs.

Arthur is on a mission.

“Oh. So you want me to refrain from dispensing a little - ” Merlin pauses, wriggling his eyebrows dramatically. “Good old-fashioned justice on the man?”

“Well, that would be nice,” Arthur muses, “but I don’t think it’s fair of me to foist that burden on you.”

Because, well, heaven knows he would have struck the man down himself if he’d had the power to do so. Merlin is folding his clothes, now, deft flicks of his wrist smoothing out any stray wrinkles the maids’ irons had missed. Merlin is surprisingly good at working with his hands, too, and though Arthur wouldn’t admit it unless his life was on the stake, he loves this so much more than when Merlin uses his powers to do things, loves watching those long, fine fingers tuck and weave and fold. “The man is a total pig.”

“Seems so, from what you’ve told me.” Merlin stands back, admiring his work, before sending the entire pile flying into Arthur’s closet with another small gesture. Arthur starts, years of conditioning getting the better of him, before turning to check that the latch is intact and sighing, soft, relieved. “So why are you telling me this anyway? Want me to get a little creative? I can do that, you know. Same old things get boring anyway.”

“Goodness, no!” Merlin may be an all-powerful god with no concern towards mortal woes, but, unfortunately, the man’s untimely demise would mark the beginning of a gigantic diplomatic incident in the country. Arthur knows Uther dislikes the man just as much as Arthur does, if not more; but one thing that the man is is terribly, awfully rich, and sometimes gold and gems speak even louder than the King’s will. “But, you know. If you can’t help it, maybe keep the punishment – down to one person?”

“Yeah, I do have a bad track record for that, don’t I.” Merlin’s expression turns downcast for a moment, a rueful smile gracing his lips. “I’ll do better than that. I do know how mortal courts work, Arthur. It would probably end up in a huge mess if I do something detrimental to his person, yes? Don’t worry. I think I can manage staying civil for a week or two.”

To state the results first, well, Merlin most certainly does not.

Or maybe he does, because he seems to keep his temper in check well enough in front of the man – but here, in the privacy of Arthur’s chambers, Merlin has nothing to hide, and his power lashes out in angry, crackling bursts, setting Arthur’s spine a-tingle and ruffling the sheets on his bed.

“That pig,” Merlin hisses, shutting the door with an incensed flick of his wrist and slamming the latch home with a resounding bang. “You do not want to know what he said to Gwen.”

Gwen, Arthur recalls, had been a friend of Merlin’s he said he’d met a while back. She also happened to be quite comely, striking enough for most to remember her, with full, welcoming lips and skin the color of that cocoa powder exotic traders sometimes brought to Camelot. No wonder, he supposes, she’s ended up catching Henríque’s eye. From what Arthur had seen, at least, the man had seemed just as unpleasant as he had the last time around, with extra fat about his fingers and midriff to boot. Arthur had wanted to grab the man by his ridiculous moustache and toss him into his chamber-pot; sometimes, Arthur truly hates these trifling politics, these intricate rules that stop him from doing whatever his heart urges him to.

How does Merlin feel, with all that power at his hands? Perhaps things are different for him, when he has no rules to follow, no-one to tell him otherwise.

Freer, most certainly. But sometimes, Arthur has come to think, it might be awfully lonely too.

Arthur huffs, slotting himself carefully onto the bed. Every single one of his muscles are protesting – the lord had demanded to see a show of the knights of Camelot’s strength, and Arthur had been out on the practice-fields practically the whole day. Soon, Arthur thinks, Uther will throw the man out, rules be damned. (Or Merlin might turn him into something befitting his disgusting manner – Arthur doesn’t really mind, either way.) “I can imagine,” he grumbles. He feels the beginning of a headache about his temples, and grinds the heels of his palms into the sides of his head, hard. “I despair to understand what goes on in the man’s head.”

“The man should thank his luck – had he gone so far as to touch her, I don’t think I would have been so kind.”

Merlin’s face is hard, lines graven in stone, unyielding and harsh. He looks every inch the punishing god, and Arthur reaches up to squeeze the boy’s fingers, soft.

He doesn’t like seeing Merlin like this.

“You’re holding up awfully well, though. Considering.”

“Perhaps.” Merlin joins him on the bed, and his face is pensive. “Though – I’ve been thinking.”

“Don’t injure yourself,” Arthur answers, almost an instinct now, and Merlin smacks him with his pillow. “Prat.” A silence, for a moment, then - “I could fight, if I wanted to.”

“You could.” It wouldn’t even merit the title of a fight, Arthur thinks, not when the odds are so terribly stacked against the visiting lord, but he doesn’t speak. Merlin shrugs, half self-deprecating, and leans a little against the headboard of Arthur’s bed. It creaks in protest, once, then settles.

“Some couldn’t,” Merlin says, and that is true as well. “I’ve never thought how those people must feel. They – can’t fight, even if they wanted to, Arthur.”

“I know.” Arthur says, because he does – he’s known, always known, and it’s one of those things that keep on eating at him from the inside-out, night after sleepless night. So many people who can’t fight for themselves, hurt, dying, when Arthur is lying here on this plush bed of his whining about trifling things like diplomatics.

Sometimes, he feels like a horrible prince.

He turns around to watch Merlin, head propped on his elbows. Merlin’s eyes are a veritable storm, blue-grey swirling and clashing on their own, flecks of gold more prominent than ever, glittering. Arthur takes him in, this unfathomable force of nature, before nudging him with his toe.

“You can’t strike every wrongdoer down,” Arthur says, gently. He feels like he has to remind Merlin, somehow – that it’s not his responsibility, nor would it ever be. He can’t even deem to pretend to understand how Merlin feels, not by a long shot, the impotence, the rage, the frustration – but he does know that should Merlin ever decide to take things into his hands, again, it will be worse than anything Camelot has ever seen.

Merlin pauses, a violent war waging just under the surface, before letting out a long sigh, a nod. “No. I suppose not.”

The smile Merlin gives him is wan and stretched, weighed down by the burden of mortal concerns, and though he seems a far cry from the wild, fey creature Arthur had seen on his quest – still, Arthur loves him all the more for it.

Several days pass without event.

Arthur doesn’t question Merlin about Henríque, because there is a part of him that would rather skirt around the problem than face it head-on, and Merlin lets it be, too. Arthur catches the god several times in his chamber, eyes far-off and fingers absent-mindedly tracing patterns across Arthur’s desk. Sparks fly from his fingertips, sometimes, golden and bright, and Arthur has to stop himself from going after them like a dog after a bone.

Merlin doesn’t seem to notice.

Lord Henríque is getting ready to leave, now, much to the delight of everyone in the castle, and Arthur is proud to count himself as one amongst them. He feels terribly optimistic about the whole thing – nothing much like he’d worried about has happened, yet – but Arthur should have known better than to count on his luck. Especially, it seems, where Merlin is concerned.

Arthur catches Henríque cornering Merlin against an alcove in one of the castle’s many corridors. The lord’s swagger is unmistakable, the gait seeming to assert his self-proclaimed dominance with every switch, every deliberate, heavy stride. Merlin, bless him, is as insouciant as ever – that characteristic confidence that nothing on earth could ever dare to touch him, that a fortress could collapse atop him and it wouldn’t even leave a scratch.

“-steel,” Arthur catches, amongst other words. Merlin’s nose crinkles for a split second in an expression of utter distaste, visible only to anyone who might have been looking for it, then Merlin is back to his signature, cheeky grin. “Well, milord,” he says, “let us wait and see.”

Henríque smiles, a wide, greasy affair, and pats Merlin on the shoulder before turning away. Merlin’s gaze immediately finds him, and Arthur steps out of where he’d been hidden, sheepish. Of course Merlin would have known where he was.

Sometimes, he thinks, life feels terribly unfair. Especially with an acquaintance like Merlin.

“What was he talking about?” Arthur asks, curious.

“Well,” Merlin replies, raising a playful brow. “We shall have to see how he copes with actual balls of steel, no?”

It takes Arthur a while to understand that this is Merlin’s version of divine justice, and when it finally sinks in, Arthur can’t help himself – he snorts, loud, and doesn’t stop until he’s gasping for air and wheezing.

Henríque doesn’t file any complaints. He is probably too embarrassed, Arthur thinks, or his sense of self-importance is actually so inflated that he hasn’t noticed he has bollocks of literal steel yet. It’s hilarious either way, and as horrible a predicament it is, Arthur still can’t bring himself to feel sorry for the man.

Arthur ponders all this and more as he lounges with Merlin on his bed, watching the travelling party depart. It’s probably longer than Camelot’s entire spring parade, and twice as thick; it is a miracle that Uther’s managed to host them for as long as he has.

It is full-blown spring, now, and golden sunlight streams through the windows to his chambers, limning Merlin’s profile in faint gold.

“Bollocks of - ” Arthur snorts, letting himself fall to lean helplessly against the god. He is wiry, but surprisingly strong (Arthur suspects some godly foul play here), and Arthur can rest his full weight against him without worrying about a fall. “You really did get creative, didn’t you? However did you - ”

“Not my idea, really, though,” Merlin shrugs, mock-modest. He snorts. “The man literally boasted to me about them. In those words exactly.”

“The things people come up with.” Arthur shakes his head, helpless, then leans back against the soft sheets. They’re freshly laundered and crisp, and they smell of the pressed flowers the maids use to freshen the sheets come spring. The faint musk mingles with Merlin’s natural scent of fresh grass, making Arthur think of spring meadows and sunny afternoons.

Arthur remembers an expanse of snow, deadly and white, winds that could blow a grown man away. How the seasons have turned.

And, with them, perhaps – Merlin, too.

“You didn’t strike him down, after all,” Arthur says, and the words don’t come out as light as he’d pictured them in his head. Merlin, ever perceptive, tilts his head at that.

Silence, then -

“Perhaps I am learning,” Merlin says, “that I don’t always need to.”

▣

“So, you and Merlin,” Morgana begins, and Arthur groans. “Please. Not that again. Not from you.”

“Oh, dear Arthur, if you say that you do not know me well enough.”

“I would say more than enough, indeed.” Arthur clamps down on the urge to bury his head in his hands and never surface again, hard. “Aren’t you even hot?”

Arthur and Morgana have been standing on the castle’s raised balcony for the better part of the morning, watching entourage after entourage of knights and squires and serving-men troop faithfully past the castle gates. It had been a novelty, once; now, with the midday sun beating down upon them, legs threatening to buckle of fatigue, it is something much more akin to torture.

Morgana, by some miracle of nature, still stands straight and ramrod-tall, her fair skin unblemished by the sun. Under his breath, Arthur curses whoever had dictated the crown prince and king’s ward be present for the contestants’ arrival.

Good chance to gauge his odds against the other knights in the tourney, Uther had said. Arthur, though, cannot for the love of the gods (and one in particular) fathom how exactly watching gleaming human-shaped blobs bobbing by is going to help him with anything.

“A lot of people are noticing your manservant, you know,” Morgana points out. Her tone is teasing but her eyes are shrewd, green glinting in the sun like polished jade. “It’s not often that we’ve seen you get so up-and-close and friendly with one.”

They’ve been much closer than friendly, alright. Arthur fights the sudden blush that threatens to spread across his face. Princely composure, he chants to himself. Princely composure.

Morgana has always been good at getting under his skin.

“Look, I-” Arthur opens his mouth to argue back, when suddenly, Morgana’s nails tighten around his arm. Arthur suppresses a wince. “Morgana, what-?”

“It’s him,” Morgana hisses. “It’s him.”

“Him who?” Arthur peers down – it’s been a while since he’s actually paid much attention to the colorful standards passing by. (Standards, it seems, no matter the significance, become dull after approximately three hours spent watching them.) This time around it’s a sickly, poisonous green, something Arthur would associate more readily with scheming witches than any man of arms. The group itself isn’t large, compared to the other ones, but there’s a palpable air of menace about the leader that has Arthur’s guts coiling low in his stomach, nauseous. “Morgana, you know them?”

“Yes – no – never mind.” Arthur’s never seen Morgana flustered, ever, but he isn’t much glad to have seen it now. She looks terrible, pupils blown wide, a scowl marring the skin between her brows. She grips him again, hard, and Arthur turns to look back at her.

“Just – stay away from him, you understand me? He’s dangerous.”

“I can’t choose not to joust with only him, Morgana,” Arthur chides, in what he prides to be his most reasonable voice. “That’s – against the rules. You know that too, don’t you?”

Morgana watches him through narrowed eyes, teeth worrying her lower lip and setting it off into a vibrant, dark red. “Dangerous,” Morgana repeats, then shakes her head, almost as if to remind herself to pay attention. Barely a heartbeat, and she’s the unflappable courier again.

The knights pass by underneath, the horses’ hoofbeats a steady clop-clop against the pavement, and Arthur wonders what exactly is going on.

That night, Arthur still hasn’t managed to get over the feeling that something is up. “It’s – strange,” he tells Merlin, who has commandeered Arthur’s most comfortable chair and has stretched out on it like a cat. Arthur doesn’t begrudge him the seat; he’s probably to confused and wound up to enjoy it anyway. “I’ve never seen Morgana quite so agitated before. She – Morgana doesn’t _do_ agitated.”

“She doesn’t,” Merlin replies, carefully neutral, and there’s that pensive look on his face again – like he’s mulling over something only he knows, something far away only his godly Sight can see. “ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says, exasperated. “We’ve been over this.”

“We have.” Merlin smiles, apologetic, and comes over to press a quick kiss into Arthur’s cheek. “But some secrets aren’t mine to tell.”

Merlin looks genuinely repentant, regretful, and Arthur doesn’t press him any further. “Alright, then. But – at least, is Morgana right to be worried? Surely you can tell me that much.”

“I can.” Merlin agrees. “I suppose – does a knight with a shield that spouts poisonous snakes disturb you?”

“Well,” Arthur says, pondering. He’s pretty sure he would have been terrified, before, but there’s something about living with an all-powerful god with a vested interest in one’s safety that dulls survival instincts. “I have a feeling that I’m not as worried as it should be. You said – a shield?”

“Yes. I think. I can check - ” Arthur watches, fascinated, as Merlin’s eyes focus somewhere far behind him, a faint tingle running through his spine, there and then gone, stretching out, out, out. “Yes. A shield, I think, or leastways something that looks like one. You needn’t worry, though. I’m sure I can do something about it.”

“Of course you could,” Arthur says, fond. He has seen Merlin twist the very fabric of the world about them; he has seen Merlin smite his enemies down in a shower of dust. He doesn’t think anything that Merlin does will surprise him much anymore. “So - do you have any ideas?”

Arthur hates to feel that he’s using Merlin as some tool, some clear-cut, easy way to worm himself out of awkward situations, but – he is a prince of Camelot, still, and the idea of such a snake-spewing knight on the tourney field doesn’t sit terribly well with him, Merlin’s presence notwithstanding.

Merlin shrugs, an impish gleam in his eyes. “Make his snakes pop out when he’s least expecting it, maybe. Or just let the snakes out of the shield – poor things, they’re half starving in there. Animals aren’t meant to be contained.”

There’s a dark edge to his voice, there, anger towards daring to presume to use living things as tools, and Arthur presses his hand over Merlin’s. “Let them go, maybe. I wouldn’t want–”

There is only one punishment for sorcery in Camelot, and Arthur has a feeling that Uther would probably deem the use of sorcerous shields far enough within the bounds of sorcery to have the man sent to the pyre. However ill-meant the knight’s intentions had been, Arthur still wouldn’t wish the pyre upon his worst enemy, and he has a feeling Merlin wouldn’t enjoy watching the execution much, either.

Merlin smiles at him then, a smile full of faint understanding and gratitude and warmth, and Arthur could swear that the temperature in the room actually went up a few degrees. “Yes,” Merlin agrees. “That would probably be for the best.”

The knight with the snakes was called Valiant, Arthur learns. It turns out that without the snakes he’s not much to cower from, clumsier even than Arthur when he had been a mere squire. Arthur watches with a vicious satisfaction as Valiant presses forward with his shield, a wide, malicious grin gracing his features, before morphing into one of blatant disbelief as his trusted snakes don’t make an appearance.

Valiant drops his shield, slipping on the sand as if it had been a patch of oil, and when Arthur catches Merlin’s eye, suspicious, he simply gives him a wink and a grin.

Ah, well. Who is he to deny Merlin his fun?

Valiant leaves Camelot a few days later, spluttering and indignant, but there is no way he could stage a complaint without exposing his original plans, and off he goes. It’s all wrapped up nice and fine, but Arthur feels as if the only thing he’s gotten out of the whole fiasco is a massive headache.

Morgana had known, he thinks. Her face, stricken, desperate, as if daring him not to take her for her words. The way her nails had dug into his arm, so tight as to be almost painful, the half-crazed light in her eyes. There is no way for her to have known, Arthur knows. Leastways logically so. Arthur and Morgana probably spend more time with each other than anyone else in the castle (Merlin and Gwen each exceptions, respectively) – he would have known if she’d been sneaking off to meet some mysterious informant.

But –

Somehow, Morgana had known. The way she had paled as soon as she had seen that sickly green banner, her desperation, how sure she had been.

How –

There is an answer to this, Arthur thinks, but it is one he’s not sure he would be comfortable pursuing.

Images of a burning pyre, Morgana, once so proud and defiant, face now twisted into a grotesque mask of agony –

No.

But – surely it is something that must be learned? Morgana isn’t a god like Merlin, this much Arthur knows. (She would have been half as judicious in the use of her powers, for one. Arthur would probably have been turned into a pig or something equally humiliating a thousand times over.) And surely – Morgana knows better than to learn.

Not when her guardian is none other than Uther Pendragon, whose hate runs much deeper than the brittle bonds of family.

Arthur sighs, running a hand through his hair. The fire is half-banked, somehow kept to that exact consistency through something Merlin’s done, just bright enough to see by and comfortable enough to doze in its light nonetheless. The flickering light throws long shadows across the room, and Arthur presses the back of his hands into his eyes, tired.

Questions and more questions, and yet, somehow, no answers to any of them.

▣

The mess with Valiant all wrapped up and over with, Merlin braces himself to make a long-overdue visit.

Merlin does not simply use his powers – he is magic, he breathes it, the fabric that knits this world together, and it is nigh impossible not to notice the bright flare of steady, ancient magic, laced with the bitter taint of despair, that sleeps underneath the castle’s stones.

Surely the dragon has sensed him, too. He masks his presence well enough amongst mortal sorcerers and their ilk, but the great dragon is something altogether different, who has breathed the air when the world had still been young, who has walked with goddesses and flied the ancient skies. But Merlin hadn’t known what to say, how to explain – how is it that he could condemn an entire nation for a mere friend, when he had let the proud beast be chained in shackles of cold iron, let him waste away in the darkness of Camelot’s dungeons?

Merlin doesn’t know himself, either. Sometimes, the entire years surrounding Will’s death feels like a hazy dream. So he waits, and waits, until – he cannot wait anymore.

He does not have need of a torch. He traces the trails that run underneath the fortress’ dungeons, breathing in air turned dank and musty by mold and running water and cockroaches and mice. Not long after that, the narrow corridors widen into a wide, gargantuan cavern, and Merlin pauses, inhaling the scent of fire and brimstone and a world half-forgotten.

The sound of beating wings, the heavy clink of steel chains. Merlin tips his head up, meets yellow eyes the size of dinner plates.

“Emrys,” the dragon rumbles. “You are late.”

“That I am, old friend.” The dragon’s head whips side to side, watching, gauging, and there is a pang somewhere deep inside Merlin’s heart. Once bright as burnished steel, Kilgharrah’s scales are now a dull, muted copper, muscles weakened by the dark and by starvation, his magic more of a dull thump than the raging river it once was. “That I am.”

Kilgharrah rumbles, breathing out a spout of thick, acrid smoke. “That form does not suit you.”

Merlin looks down at his hands, white-skinned and slender, the lanky arms and legs of the country farm-boy Will had loved, that Arthur loves. He remembers how Kilgharrah had last seen him, a god in the dusk of their time, the dawn of the age of men on the horizon, proud and tall and golden.

With a sigh, he lets go.

“Better.” And then, Kilgharrah does not speak.

He does not berate Merlin for not having saved him, for having abandoned him for so long, and Merlin does not know what to say to that. He makes himself comfortable on the cold, hard floor of the cavern, his only companion the faint reflection of his Light off Kilgharrah’s scales, and together, they breathe.

For all his virtues and power, Merlin had never been a patient god, and eventually he cannot help but break first, stilted words shattering the fragile quiet of the cavern. “You don’t – ask. Don’t – blame-” No way to ask this, Merlin knows, but he does, anyway. “You do not hate me?”

Kilgharrah merely considers him, head tilted to one side, like a snake surveying its prey.

“I am not forgiving at heart, Emrys,” Kilgharrah says, at long last. Merlin bites his lip, a rueful smile threatening to spread across his features.

“That has ever been a vice of dragonkind, I know.”

“I have heard of the winter,” Kilgharrah says, simple, the word hanging heavy between them. “But I have also heard of the spring.”

Merlin hangs his head. “Yes.”

When Kilgharrah speaks again, his voice is deep and grating, accusation heavy upon every word. “Pendragon slaughtered all of my kind,” he hisses, flames licking about his mouth. “And yet you gift him with a harvest like no other.”

A clang of chains rattling, yet another bout of smoke that escapes the great beast’s nostrils. Merlin sighs, pressing the backs of his hands against his eyes – a gesture that an immortal does not need, and Kilgharrah misses nothing, eyes narrowing and tongue flicking out to wet his teeth. Merlin cannot meet Kilgharrah’s eyes.

He remembers Mary Collins, old face twisted and spiteful, accusing, how he had felt as he had smothered her power inside his iron grip, how – domineering, undeserving.

And yet – Arthur.

Arthur. Always Arthur.

He is like a breath of fresh air he hadn’t even known he had needed, the first fresh jolt of living he’d felt after Will, and – Merlin doesn’t know what to think, anymore.

“Would you believe me,” he says, “if I said I’d met someone who’d shown me the error of my ways?”

Kilgharrah says nothing, for a while, and all that fills the cavern about them is the faraway sound of dripping water, the cackle of flame and the play of shadow across the walls. Then: “You have ever been soft, Emrys,” Kilgharrah spits. “The greatest, they say, but also the weakest. You scorn the old ways.”

“You forget, old friend, that I was there when those ways were first forged.” Merlin gets up, unimaginably weary, shifting unconsciously back into his mortal form. “Would I be presuming too much to still call you friend?”

Kilgharrah blows a long stream of smoke, wings rustling and stretching. “You will not free me,” he says, and it is more of a statement than a question.

Merlin winces. He can feel Kilgharrah’s anger, hatred – he sees, in his mind’s eye, Camelot burning, ashes, bodies everywhere, and, above all, the screeching, triumphant call of a dragon once wronged, proud and defiant, over the rubble of a city once great.

He inclines his head, quiet. He cannot bear to speak the words himself.

“Then it would be better for you to leave,” Kilgharrah states, simply, before flying back to perch.

Merlin lingers a second, two, before Kilgharrah blows a pointed streak of white flame in his direction.

He leaves.

Arthur is waiting for him when he arrives back at Arthur’s chambers. He takes in the faint smell of sulphur that permeates Merlin’s clothes with a raised eyebrow. “I won’t ask,” he says, with a raised, exaggeratedly haughty brow that Morgana would have been proud of, “but you’d better get yourself a fresh change of clothes. Don’t take this wrong, but you stink.”

Merlin waves his hand in a vague gesture, and his clothes are as good as new. He collapses into Arthur’s bed, somehow unbearably tired, though he knows better than anyone that gods can’t get tired, not as mortals do.

Arthur joins him soon after, golden hair burnished in the candlelight, blue eyes soft and understanding.

Sometimes, Merlin thinks, Arthur should have been the one to wield this power, this strength Merlin doesn’t know what to do with. There are so many questions, nowadays, so many should-I’s, could-I-have’s, and Arthur is the only thing that anchors him, the steady rock amongst the turmoil that is him.

Merlin watches over Arthur, long after he falls asleep, and thinks – no, this is one thing I will not lose.

Merlin would raze the entire world for Arthur’s sake. For Will, he had brought winter upon the earth; for Arthur, he truly will tear the world apart.

Merlin watches Arthur often, and he does not miss much. Merlin has seen how Arthur seems more relaxed these days, more carefree, less and less like the hardened, weary prince who had come to seek him years ago. ‘There’s something about having a god at your beck and call, Merlin,’ Arthur had said, jokingly, but Merlin had sensed the truth in those light, fleeting words – Arthur can afford to be the young man he had always meant to be, because he has Merlin to look after him, now.

A surge of unbearable tenderness wells up deep inside Merlin’s being. Merlin wants to draw Arthur close and never let him go, wants to nourish him and protect him and watch him grow into the king he was always meant to be. But if he ever tells Arthur this, Merlin knows, he will shudder and tell Merlin he isn’t a blushing maiden – and so don’t treat him as such.

A fond smile plays about Merlin’s lips. _Oh, my beautiful, proud prince.._

Merlin does not speak, simply content to run a finger over Arthur’s sleep-mussed tunic, passing blessings into every seam, every thread, every bit of exposed skin he can find.

The night deepens; Arthur sleeps.

▣

There has been a troubling influx of bodies in Camelot, these days, and Arthur is well close to the end of his patience. The lack of sleep is finally getting to him, and his eyes ache and his heart pounds, because it’s like some awful, inevitable plague, one person dropping like a log, then two, then three, and now, it’s an infestation.

The bodies are gruesome, skin pallid white like a corpse’s, veins stark and blue against their skin. There is something disturbingly unnatural about people looking like that, and bile rises unbidden to the back of Arthur’s throat.

What Arthur hates more than anything, though, is the sheer helplessness – that feeling that he could do everything in his power, and yet his people will suffer.

“Do you think there’s magic involved?” Arthur asks Merlin, one night, because as much as his pride smarts, every time, hopelessness threatening to take over his limbs, the lives of his people come first – if there is a way he could use, anything, then he should take it.

“I would have to see one of these patients, to be sure,” Merlin says, his eyes narrowed in displeasure. The air of Arthur’s chambers taste of thunder and lightning, the near-painful prickle Arthur has learned is characteristic of Merlin’s annoyance permeating the air.

“I thought you could – you know, sense these things,” Arthur says, then winces right away. He sounds like an ungrateful brat, whining about the lack of results without doing anything himself. He sighs. “Forgive me. It’s been a tiring few days.”

Merlin gives him a look, but lets it drop soon enough. He shrugs. “I – suspect,” he says, “but I can’t be sure.” He looks helpless, upset, frustrated. It’s a foreign look on Merlin, who could raze Camelot to the ground with a look, almost like a cowering lion, a blind eagle. “There are – ways to block a god’s Sight. Though - ” Merlin cuts himself off, hands coming out to fuss at his hair. The black curls stand up on end, a tangled mess of a bird’s nest, and Arthur ends up laughing despite himself.

Merlin glares at him, mock-upset. “It isn’t that funny,” he argues, and Arthur laughs, teasing. It feels good to be able to joke with Merlin again. “Oh, yes, it is,” he grins. “Merlin the Great, an adorable baby rat.”

“One of these days……” Merlin wriggles his fingers, and Arthur yelps as he’s dumped unceremoniously onto his bed and tickled mercilessly, all with invisible hands that he can neither see nor counter. “Oi! That’s cheating!”

“I get to,” Merlin declares, prim. “Privileges to being a god, you know.”

“Ridiculous,” Arthur grumbles before flopping onto the bed. Merlin really looks frustrated within an inch of his life, set to storm out of Arthur’s chambers any moment. Arthur softens, and pats the bed beside him, inviting.

“You don’t actually believe that you’re responsible for every single thing that goes on behind these walls, do you?” Arthur says, hoping that Merlin will take his words as the expression of concern that they are, not something demeaning, accusing. From Merlin’s answering smile, Arthur supposes that he has. “You’re trying,” Arthur adds. “And that’s all I could ask for, really.”

“I know,” Merlin replies, snuggling close. Merlin is lithe and fey, all sharp angles and long lines, but he fits surprisingly well against Arthur’s sides. Arthur raises a hand, wanting to run it through Merlin’s hair, then stops. It seems condescending, somehow, petting a god – a honest-to-goodness deity – on the head, like an obedient dog, or a child. Merlin makes a noise of protest and snuggles closer.

Arthur’s hand, awkward, ends up somewhere between Merlin’s neck and shoulder.

“That’s why,” Merlin says, “I need you to remind me.”

And Arthur feels warm the way a blazing fireplace never could, a warmth that permeates his very bones, because when Merlin says things like that –

Arthur feels needed, indispensable – cherished.

This, he thinks, is something a fellow god could never give Merlin, and Arthur is thankful beyond anything that he is able and willing.

Without a word, Arthur draws his hand up, careful, tentative, and lays his hand against the top of Merlin’s head. Merlin’s hair is softer than it looks, curly and black and silky-soft, and Arthur runs his fingers through the dark mop of hair, reveling in the peace that it brings. Merlin almost _purrs_ , like a cat by a fireplace, and leans a little closer.

They sit in peace, the only noise the faint crackle of logs from the fireplace, and it is the closest to home Arthur thinks he’s ever been.

The peace is broken by a frantic knock upon the door, almost as if whoever is on the other side would knock the door down and burst in, given any more time. Arthur, groggy, walks across the door at a half-crawl to shove it open, a hand on the dagger he keeps beneath his pillow.

It is a girl, fine-featured, dark-skinned, and Arthur thinks, _Gwen._ He doesn’t really know her, in the purest sense of the word, but her being Morgana’s maid as well as Merlin’s friend has made sure that Arthur could at least pick her out in a crowd. She looks horrible, eyes blown wide, hair in disarray, the hands grasping at the door trembling in strain. “What’s – goodness, is something wrong?”

“My-” the girl pauses, unable to speak any further. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, then two. “It’s – my father.”

Arthur spies Gaius’ greyed, slightly stooped form beyond her, and the old physician’s eyes meet Merlin’s in an unspoken plea. Arthur looks to Merlin, who, brushing sleep out of his eyes, nods – once, firm, resolute.

“We’ll go,” Arthur tells them, hurriedly pulling a tunic over his head. Merlin follows his cue next to him, slipping on his wrinkled servant’s jacket and running a hand through his hair. “Lead the way.”

Gwen’s father lies in Gaius’ chambers. He is a sturdily built man, more than capable, it seems, of carrying out the grunt work running a forge requires. He is sickly pale, though, veins bulging out of his skin, and Arthur clamps a hand to his mouth.

Princes do not show weakness – but he is not Camelot’s prince, now. He stands here as a friend, and seeing Gwen’s father like this, helpless, in pain –

Merlin strides forward, purposeful. He sheds the veneer of clumsy manservant like an old coat, straight and tall and confident, the barest glint of anger towards whoever has dared to cause this visible in his eyes, and Gwen stumbles from his path, almost upon reflex. Gaius gives Merlin a reproachful look – don’t give yourself away like that, it reads, admonishing. Merlin gives the old physician a sheepish smile and gets right down to business.

Merlin lays a hand on the man’s forehead, considering. Then he turns around, giving Gaius a look and a small nod, and Gaius, perceptive as ever, ushers Gwen out.

“But-” she protests, clearly unwilling to leave her father in the hand of strangers. “It’s alright,” Gaius says, soothing, a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Merlin here is quite knowledgeable about cures and remedies, as well. It is best that none remain in the chambers while we diagnose.”

“I – trust you, Gaius,” Gwen says, and though her voice is trembling her eyes are firm and resolute. With a nod, as if bracing herself, she turns out of the door and is gone.

There are no footsteps. Arthur suspects that when they open the door, the first thing they see will be the maid, waiting, leaned against the walls of the corridor.

“So, is it - ?” Arthur asks, not sure what question exactly he ought to be asking. “Yes,” Merlin nods. “It’s the work of magic. Quite powerful, too, really.” Merlin’s eyes narrow in consideration. “I think Gaius has a good idea of what it is, too – Gaius?”

Gaius nods, heaving a heavy sigh. “I had my suspicions, yes.”

“They are most probably right.” Merlin’s expression is calm, but Arthur knows the god well enough to read the hidden layer of anger and disappointment under it. Merlin, Arthur knows, doesn’t much like sorcerers using their gifts for ill. It’s different from the winter-curse upon Camelot, so many years ago – this is malicious, clearly ill-willed, and Arthur likes it even less than Merlin does. Gaius’s voice is low, serious. “An afanc.”

“Afanc?” Arthur asks. It sounds foreign, sorcerous, and it is still enough to bring Arthur to flinch. “A creature made of earth and water,” Merlin explains. He raises a finger to draw a circle, and in a glittering burst of light, a figure materializes before Arthur’s eyes – great, hulking shoulders, misshapen face, scales that look molded out of clay. It is big, and ugly, and Arthur dislikes it immediately.

“Doesn’t look pretty,” he comments. “So that’s what’s causing all this?”

“Most probably, yes.” There is a line between Merlin’s brows. Arthur suppresses the urge to reach out and smooth it, bring it back to that fey, light cheerfulness he’s gotten used to over these few months. “There’s more,” Arthur guesses, because he’s learned to read Merlin’s moods, nowadays, and that is what Merlin looks like when there’s some unpleasant fact he is loath to share.

“Yes.”

Gaius is the one to explain, this time. “Afancs are – creatures of the old religion. Lore has it that only the most powerful of sorcerers can summon them. I suspect a high priestess of the old religion is behind this.”

A cold jolt, like liquid ice running up his spine.

“She dares,” Though light, almost joking, there is a flinty undercurrent of displeasure running under Merlin’s words. The god frowns. “She hides from me, now. Not for much longer.”

Arthur wonders, for a moment, what happens to high priestesses who anger their god.

He suspects it won’t be pretty.

“So – she can mask herself from you?”

“Yes.” The word ends in a soft hiss, the sibilant sound stretched out, menacing. Merlin’s smile is brief and full of teeth. “Can’t have other gods meddling in one’s affairs, no?”

“Oh.” Arthur supposes it makes sense, in a way. Merlin probably wouldn’t have liked William being at the mercy of other gods’ whims, either.

“We’ll have to find the creatures the old-fashioned way, then,” Arthur says, and his words, when they come out, are surprisingly calm. Arthur has always felt apprehensive before a mission, that faint twinge on his nerves that told him he’s forgotten something important, that he has to check again, again. But now he has Merlin, and unfounded as it may be – Arthur feels like he could take on the world and come up on top, unscathed.

“I’m not a half-bad tracker myself, you know. And now we know what to look for, too. But, well, there’s the problem of-” Arthur gestures at the man’s general direction. “Gwen’s father.”

“Ah, yes.” Merlin strides over to the man’s side, cheerful smile upon his lips once more. “Let’s get down to work, shall we?”

There is something about watching Merlin heal Gwen’s father – Tom, the castle’s blacksmith, Arthur recalls - that almost feels as if he has witnessed a miracle in the making. Warm golden light flows from Merlin’s fingertips into the man’s prone figure, and the strange, blue veins seem to sink back into the man’s skin, color returning to his cheeks. Merlin looks up at Arthur, the last vestiges of his power still coloring his eyes blue-white-gold. “He sleeps, now,” he says. “He should awake sometime tomorrow.”

Arthur, for a split moment, thinks back on how effortlessly Merlin had healed the man. How, for all the power that had flown from Merlin, had filled the room, Merlin had seemed as comfortable as could be, almost as easy as breathing.

And, despite himself, Arthur cannot help but ask – what if Merlin could heal the entirety of Camelot like this? It would be so easy, so – simple.

Merlin’s eyes meet his, and Merlin does not shy from his gaze. His eyes are impossibly old, though understanding, the weighty gaze of a god.

“How much is too much, Arthur?” he asks, voice soft. “It is a fine line, the lines that gods walk. At first, you wish to help. Perhaps, later, you end up taking away the last free will that they had.” Merlin’s eyes are painfully open, stormy grey fading into blue, glinting faintly orange in the low light of Gaius’ chambers.

Merlin pauses, and Arthur reaches out, almost unconscious, to draw Merlin’s hand into his.

Merlin spares Arthur a fleeting smile, grateful, and when he speaks again his voice is firm and resolute. “We will find the Afanc,” he says. “Eventually – we will find the priestess, too.”

“That is more than enough,” Arthur tells him, decisive, and lets Merlin draw him into a hug.

He thinks he catches Gaius’ approving glance, later, when he looks over Merlin’s shoulder.

Gwen is nearly incoherent the next day, tears streaming down her face, and when she manages to calm herself enough to speak, she grabs Gaius’ hand and doesn’t let go.

“Goodness, Gaius,” she whispers, voice hoarse from crying. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Gaius’ face stills for a moment, uncomfortable, it seems, to simply take credit for something he has not done, but it is best no-one knows of the real story, so he simply smiles and pats Gwen, awkward, on the head. “That’s all well and good, my girl, well and good,” he says, and Gwen beams up at him, blindingly bright.

Uther finds out about Gwen’s father soon enough. Knowledge of Gwen’s father’s ailment had been much more common than Arthur had thought, it seems – Arthur berates himself that he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Of course the castle’s foremost blacksmith falling ill would have attracted attention. And one miraculous recovery, as always, is bigger news than the death of ten.

“It must be sorcery,” Uther says, face terribly blank, inhuman, cruel.

It is the face he wears when he thinks he has smelt magic, and Arthur, in these moments, prays fervently that he may never have to wear such a mask.

“That – is it not too hasty an assumption, father?” Arthur queries, though he knows well that it is a futile endeavor. Uther gives Arthur a long, considering look, as if wondering if he should have his son ‘investigated’ as well, and Arthur sits straight, still. He refuses to squirm under his father’s gaze.

Uther looks away, at last, and Arthur takes a deep breath, as discreet as possible. “It is sorcery, Arthur,” Uther says, and his verdict is final. “There is never an assumption too hasty when it comes to that.”

It is Uther’s logic, it seems, that one who had contracted the plague could not possibly have had enough strength to cast a healing spell. So Gwen it must be.

And, again, in his strange, implacable logic – one must be the one to have cast the curse if they are to have a way to heal it. So Gwen becomes the sorceress who brought the plague to Camelot, and Uther will not be swayed towards anything else.

Gwen is sent to the dungeons right away.

There is no right way to tell someone they’re to be burned at dawn, Arthur realizes. He stares, helpless, at Gwen’s curled figure nestled against the prison’s walls. “It’s not – fair,” he says, then clamps his mouth shut. Of course it isn’t fair; anyone with a brain worth anything knows that much. But there isn’t anything else he can say, and he stands, helpless, fingers clenching and unclenching in a sporadic rhythm.

“I’m – alright,” the girl tries – she is courageous, Arthur will give her that. She is someone, he thinks, worth getting to know better – once this whole fiasco is over and done with.

Arthur spares Merlin a quick glance. The god seems fit to burst, too incensed to even care for subtlety. The air about him shimmers, hot and heavy, and golden light dances in bursts of sparks across his form. Gwen seems to have noticed him just now, and Arthur watches as her eyes widen, her hand come up to hide a gasp. The low clang of steel chains reverberates across the room.

Arthur wonders what has gotten Merlin worked up so much – when it hits him like a sledgehammer, and Arthur understands.

Oh.

_Will._

A friend clapped in chains; an execution.

“Let me set her free,” Merlin growls, eyes scintillating in a staccato if blinding white-gold-blue-white-gold-blue, and there is something strange and heady about being the one to hold this unstoppable power in his hands, the fact that he – and, perhaps, only he – can command him to go ahead or not to, almost like holding an avalanche on a leash.

Arthur wants to say yes, more than anything. But if the girl is to continue her life in Camelot, she musn’t be found escaping the prison, because there isn’t any benefit of doubt either, then – it will be the pyre, clear and simple.

Arthur does not want to condemn this girl to a lifetime of running and hiding.

He won’t.

Arthur knows, then, what he has to do. Well, it is impossible – perhaps, but Arthur has always had a knack for achieving the impossible. He sets his jaw.

“We’ll find the creature before daybreak,” Arthur says. “And then – you do what you have to.”

Arthur hopes, sincerely, that it doesn’t have to come down to that.

The waterways under Camelot are dank and filled with the stench of rotting water, and Arthur stifles a curse as he almost slips and breaks his neck on a patch of stray moss. Merlin flicks his wrist, hefting the witch-light they’ve been using as a guide a little higher.

“Careful,” Merlin says. “I’m not responsible for what I’d do when you get hurt.”

“I’m a warrior, Merlin,” Arthur replies. “I’ll always get hurt.”

“Might have to heft you over my shoulder and carry you back,” Merlin banters right back, tone carefully amicable and all the more insufferable for it. Arthur groans, mock-upset, but still he can’t stop the shiver that runs up his spine: he doesn’t want to be yet another Will to Merlin. He doesn’t.

Sometimes, Merlin’s devotion scares him almost as much as his love sustains him. It’s a terrifying thought, what a twice-grieving deity might be driven to do.

But it isn’t a conversation for today, and Arthur very much prefers having divine backup over having none at all – years of harsh battle has taught him that much. With a shrug, Arthur pushes it all to the back of his mind, concentrating. “There.”

Merlin had said the Afanc was a water-bound creature, created out of Earth and Water. The high priestess had done something to the creature, too, and Merlin hadn’t been able to sense it except narrow its general location down to ‘somewhere close to Camelot.’ He’d looked fit to explode any moment, frustration not being an emotion he encountered often, and Arthur had had to drag him to the well near Gwen’s home – the starting point of their search, as it had seemed the most logical one.

They had picked up on the trail with only a little amount of flailing about in the absolute maze of the water-ways, a huge imprint that looked to be a cross-breed between a crocodile and a pack mule, large and misshapen and ugly. It stank of rotten rain-water, and Merlin had confirmed, “yes,” nose turned up and away from the print.

And – now.

Arthur, perverse as it may be, actually feels the most alive he’s been over the past few weeks – sometimes, with Merlin, it feels as if he’s a mere commodity, something to be looked at and cherished, not the battle-hardened warrior-prince he’d honed himself to be. Now, though, he’s actually leading Merlin – he’s doing something, however much help it may be, and it lends an extra spring to his step, an extra gleam to his eye.

“It’s getting closer,” Merlin says, brow scrunched up in concentration, and his eyes are tinged with faint gold around the edges, his gaze fixed somewhere far into the darkening corridor. “Close, now.”

Arthur tightens the grip on his sword. His palms are getting sweaty, and he quickly wipes them down on the hem of his tunic under his chain-mail, because it simply won’t do to have his sword fly out of his grip at some crucial moment.

He does have a reputation to maintain, after all.

In the end, though, they don’t have any warning whatsoever.

It’s quiet one moment, the faint drip-drip of falling water the only sould that breaks the silence, then it’s all action and stench and claws and snapping jaws, and Arthur throws up his sword on instinct, falling into a roll to evade the next slash of the beast’s claws.

Damn it; the thing must have marked Arthur as the weak link. It doesn’t even spare any attention towards Merlin, biting and slashing at Arthur with visceral intensity. Arthur parries a blow, another, and then Merlin is spinning, hand outstretched, a blistering blast of fire scorching its hide and making it reel back in pain.

The beast is tall, taller even than Arthur himself, rearing up on its hind legs. Its skin is tough and scaly, and still somehow wet and slimy at once, irregular bumps and protrusions coating its entire surface. Its eyes are beady, small, malicious, legs rippling with muscle, and – well, it isn’t anything Arthur wants near him.

Merlin’s eyes flash with irritation – that the beast survived the first hit, perhaps – and the boy is not as discerning the second time around. A thin streak of fire, hot and bright enough to make Arthur stumble back and shield his eyes, erupts from Merlin’s fingertips, and by the time Arthur opens his eyes again the beast is dead.

Arthur toes it with the tips of his boots, unwilling to go any closer than absolutely necessary, and wrinkles his nose in distaste. “That’s a bit big to lug all the way back to the castle.”

“I have my ways,” Merlin says, “But you’re right. Maybe just the head?”

Arthur wastes no time in lopping the head off with his sword.

It is a strange, grotesque march, trudging all the way back to the castle with the misshapen head of the afanc in tow. Thankfully it is still dark when Arthur and Merlin make it back to the castle, sky streaked in tones of velvety blue and indigo, and Arthur heaves a sigh of relief.

When Arthur bursts into Uther’s chambers, dank and grimy and with the head of a monster in a sack over his back, his father merely raises an eyebrow.

“The beast responsible for the plague,” Arthur says, and Uther hums in consideration, peering into the relative darkness of the sack. “And you are sure?”

Arthur has learned long ago that Uther likes his replies short, succinct, and to the point. “Yes, sire,” he replies, inclining his head, and Uther considers him, eyes narrowed in thought. “You may go,” Uther says at long last, and as much as Arthur wishes to ask of Gwen’s fate, he knows better than to – it would not aid her whatsoever, to draw Uther’s attention to her as such.

The next morning, there is no execution, and Arthur, exhausted and utterly worn out, nearly weeps in relief. Gwen gives him a knowing look, and Arthur suspects that she’s mulled over the events in the dungeon for herself, that she has some inkling of what exactly Merlin is. What – who – is really to thank for her father, for freeing her – everything.

That is why Arthur is surprised when he finds Gwen outside his chambers one morning, head dipped in a show of respect, mouth stretched in a slow smile.

“I wanted to thank you,” she explains, once she is inside. “For all that you’ve done.”

“It was mostly – Merlin, I think,” Arthur says, because however much that rankles his pride, he suspects that is pretty much true. “I didn’t really do much.”

“You’d fool most people with that,” Gwen says, soft, reprimanding, “but not me. You did it together, Arthur. So don’t brush off my thanks like that.”

“Together,” Arthur repeats, dumb. It’s a wonderful word, together, and something warm threatens to bud deep in his heart.

“Together.” Gwen nods firmly, once, then curtsies gracefully. “I’d love to stay longer, I really would, but – Morgana will be looking for me soon.”

“Ah, we all know better than to keep Morgana waiting, don’t we?” Arthur grins, and when Gwen smiles. “Careful,” she chides, “or I might tell her.”

Arthur’s head is swimming with fatigue, his vision dark around the edges, and Arthur wants nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep non-stop for a week. It’s been a horrifying few days, to be sure, and yet –

Still, somehow, he’s managed to wrangle a new friend out of it all, and that, he thinks, is better than anything he could have hoped for.

▣

“I’ve heard the little prince has gotten himself another loyal knight,” the dragon says, as soon as Merlin sets foot in the chamber. Merlin should have known Kilgharrah would have his own way of knowing things – he wouldn’t put anything past the old beast, wily, clever, a thousand unspoken words hidden behind his maw. Merlin huffs a breath, a wry smile dancing about his mouth.

“As sharp as ever, I see.”

And yes, Kilgharrah is right. Merlin thinks of Lancelot again, the brave mortal who had tried to save a god from a griffin. Not that he had known who Merlin truly was, of course – but it isn’t often that one finds a man willing to go out of his way for another like that, and, after all the long, weary years of Merlin’s life, it had been something of a welcome surprise. Sharp-featured and noble, with serious, dark eyes that missed nothing, Lancelot was everything a knight ought to be.

Yes, Merlin things, he will serve Arthur well in the years to come. He has left Camelot for now, claiming himself unworthy of being called a knight of Camelot, but Merlin knows, the same way he knows that he will never leave Arthur’s side, now or in death – that the knight will return, one day.

Merlin will make sure that Arthur is there, safe and sound, to welcome him back.

Kilgharrah shifts himself on his perch, wings rustling and creaking like a tree in a storm, before landing in front of Merlin with a powerful flap of his wings. A deep, reverberating thump resounds through the cave, and Merlin cannot help but smile despite himself.

Some things, he supposes, never really change. Kilgharrah had ever been one for drama.

Merlin has settled into a strange sort of truce with the dragon over the past few weeks. Merlin doesn’t quite understand himself why he had begun to visit the dragon, irregular trips that barely lasted an hour, more often than not ending without a single word having passed between them. Kilgharrah has never been one to bend his pride for the sake of others, and his bitterness runs deep – and for that, Merlin does not blame him, because for all his pride and fire the dragon may very well be the last of his kind, and it is an existence Merlin would not wish upon his worst enemy.

Merlin does not yield, either, for he is tired, so tired, and he has no wish to stand against one of his oldest friends – but if Camelot is in danger, Merlin knows, fight he will, and that is not something he wants to contemplate, yet. So they simply breathe together, god to dragon, and after some few, tension-fraught weeks, Kilgharrah breaks the truce with a snort.

“Only you would have been foolish enough,” Kilgharrah had said, without quite making clear what he was berating Merlin for, and that had been that.

Kilgharrah does not stay quiet for long.

“So many perils, already, hmm?” the great dragon hums, sending a puff of acrid smoke arcing towards the ceiling. “So many trials, so much turmoil, already – in that short life of his.”

And it is true; Merlin cannot even count the number of attempts that have been made on the prince’s life with both of his hands. He sighs, making himself comfortable against the hewn rock of the cavern.

“Believe me, Kilgharrah,” he says, “but if I could have had it any other way, I would have.”

The gleam in the old dragon’s eye is shrewd. “Ah, but he is not that sort of prince, is he not? He would rather die than spend the rest of his life in coddled bliss, locked away in your chambers.”

“That is so.” Merlin laughs, because he knows Arthur, the way he comes alive on the training fields, laughing and poking fun with his knights, camaraderie thicker than blood between them. No, Arthur is not a doll to be watched and admired from afar. He is much too – _much_ , for that. “But it is fine – I’ll always be there to protect him. He will be brilliant, once he becomes the king he was always meant to be.”

And that is Merlin’s role, isn’t it? To nurture, to protect. Not befitting a god of his standing, some may say. Merlin doesn’t mind much. Nothing is much of a hardship – not when Arthur is in it.

“Ah, I think he shall be brilliant indeed.” Kilgharrah blows a ring of smoke into the air. It drifts up and up, disappearing into the murky gloom of the chamber’s high ceiling. “Great peril has always heralded the beginning of a greater age, has it not?”

There is something in Kilgharrah’s voice, the barest of inflections, and Merlin tenses. “Of the many things about you,” he warns, voice sharp, “your riddles are not something I had missed.”

The dragon draws a deep breath, the scent of brimstone clotting in a thick cloud between them.

“The once and future king.” He breathes, turning to fix Merlin with an unblinking, yellow stare, and then–

Merlin laughs.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kilgharrah,” he says. “If Arthur is the once and future king – don’t you think I would have known?”

Merlin, too, has heard of the legend of the Once and Future King. It is a legend almost as old as the gods themselves, some gods even going so far as to call it a silly bedside tale for young gods. A king, prophesied to rise, bright and blazing, to lead his people into a Golden Age of wealth and prosperity. A king who is said to meet his mortal doom – before rising again, thousands of years later, when the world’s need of him is greatest.

No, not Arthur, Merlin thinks. Merlin cannot wait a thousand years for him. He won’t survive it.

“You feel it, too,” Kilgharrah insists, stubborn, the knowing glint in his eyes is more irritating than anything Merlin has ever seen.

“You and your riddles,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “I am afraid, my friend, that this time you go too far. That is too far-fetched, even for you, is it not? You’ve still to meet the boy.”

Because Arthur is truly little more than a boy, to him and to Kilgharrah, who have seen the seasons turn more times than they could count. Kilgharrah snaps his jaws, incensed. “Heed my words, Emrys. Love renders you blind.”

Perhaps it is true. But still, it isn’t anything Merlin would like to hear from his old friend’s lips, and he lets a fraction of his power escape, enough to fill the chamber, weigh the air down. “Kilgharrah,” he says, letting a slight edge creep into his voice. “That’s enough for today.”

“Threats,” Kilgharrah grumbles, tongue flicking out between sharp teeth, but he subsides. Still, the dragon’s pride is nothing to scoff at, and he does not speak at all after that, content to simply blow smoke rings into the air and perch upon his rock, watching Merlin through narrowed eyes.

Merlin eventually gives in.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “I do hope you are more talkative the next time around, old friend.”

Kilgharrah does not answer. Merlin sighs, shrugs, and turns around.

He stretches himself, letting reality bend and reshape about him, and the dragon’s chamber fades before his eyes, replaced with the familiar, dull grey of Camelot’s corridors.

Merlin imagines Arthur with a crown of gold about his brow, sunlight wreathing him like a cloak, stern-faced, eyes laughing, a great sword in his hands – all of Albion bowing before his feet.

It suits him so well, Merlin thinks. But –

No.

Arthur is his Arthur. Nothing more, nothing less.

He will be a great king in his own right, one day, and old legends will have nothing to do with it.

▣

“So, you think you know who’d been behind the – afanc?”

Names of magic, Arthur thinks – there’s something strange about them. The pronunciation sounds strange off his tongue, stilted somehow, wrong. Merlin nods. “Then why, by the heavens, did you wait until now to tell me that?”

“Believe it or not, it wasn’t actually intentional this time.” Merlin runs a hand over Arthur’s arm, apologetic, and a tingle runs up along his arm, warm, teasing, gentle. “Things were busy, you remember. That Lancelot fellow, for one.”

“Ah, yes. There was that.”

A smile spreads across Arthur’s face at the mention of the man. He had been everything Arthur could have ever hoped for in a knight, brave, noble, honorable – as Arthur had been well made sure of when the man had turned down Arthur’s offer to knight him then and there, on grounds that he refused to break Camelot’s laws to do so. (There was also that thing about Gwen being horribly infatuated about the man, too, but – well. Once Arthur is king……

So many things will change.)

“So, about the-” Arthur makes a vague gesture with his hand to indicate the awful, slimy beast that was the afanc, hoping Merlin would understand, somehow. He always seems to – Arthur sincerely hopes that it isn’t that the god has been reading his mind or anything like that.

“Yes. Afanc. I recognized the magic. I do not know the woman, in person – but the magic was unmistakable.”

“You can do that too?” Arthur asks, genuinely surprised. Merlin is a veritable treasure trove of mysteries; some days, Arthur wonders if it might be faster to ask Merlin what he can’t do. Merlin nods.

“How could I not?” the boy shrugs, laundry forgotten, gaze far-off in the window. “She was the one, perhaps, to have set off the purge.”

“She – that isn’t anything I’ve heard before.”

“No, perhaps not.” Merlin’s smile is a sad, twisted thing. “And don’t ask – some secrets, Arthur, aren’t mine to tell.”

“Sometimes,” Arthur grumbles, “I wish you weren’t so bloody honorable.”

Merlin shrugs, eyes shadowed. “You never know. I mightn’t be that person you made me out to be, after all.”

And Arthur knows, too – that where there is light there is always shadow, that there are some parts of Merlin that he hasn’t – might never – see. Even over his meagre twenty-or-so years of existence, Arthur has made mistakes, some irreparable, spilt blood upon his hands. Arthur cannot fathom what millennia could do to a man.

But it is his Merlin, too, whose smile Arthur knows is clear enough to rival the sun itself, and Arthur does not care.

Merlin perks up all of a sudden, gaze trained somewhere beyond the windowpanes, and Arthur starts, almost dropping his quill. “Is something up?”

Arthur might be many things, but stupid enough to disregard a warning of Merlin’s he isn’t, and his hand seeks out the dagger he keeps in his boot, acting half on instinct. Merlin shakes his head, quiet. “No. But – I’ll be back soon,” he says, and vanishes in a faint puff of air.

_Gods,_ Arthur thinks, fondly exasperated, and turns back to his paperwork. Now, why on earth anyone thought it a good idea to send grain reports to the crown prince’s desk….

When Merlin is back, he has two passengers in tow.

A man, thin and pale, with unruly, flyaway dark hair that curls near the edges, and a boy, wide-eyed and curly-haired, looking about the room in wonder. Both of them have that mind-boggled, confused look mixed with awe that Arthur has come to associate with the appearance of Emrys – Arthur can’t blame them, really. He doesn’t think he’d taken the knowledge any better than they had, to be honest.

“Meet Cerdan and Mordred,” Merlin says. Arthur blinks. “Hello,” he says, hoping he sounds as mild-mannered and amicable as he’s trying to be. “Do try to make yourself comfortable.”

Cerdan – the man, it seems, who looks old enough to have been the boy’s father – doesn’t seem to register Arthur’s words, instead looking towards Merlin with an unmistakable expression of reverence upon his face. He kneels, urging Mordred to follow his lead.

“Emrys,” he whispers, hushed. “You – heard our prayer. You _came._ ”

Something very much like _I had thought you to be a mere legend_ is mixed into his voice, joy mingling with distant disbelief, and Merlin’s eyes are sad as he bids them rise. “Well, I have been rather remiss in my duties, haven’t I?”

Arthur looks toward Merlin, quizzical, and Merlin says, simply, “Once upon a time - Emrys was the patron of the druids, too.”

Ah.

Druids, then. Arthur can imagine easily enough what might have led two druids to call for their god in Camelot – soldiers, armed with bristling spears and broadswords, sweeping through the street in search of sorcerers to burn. It is a horrifying thought, and Arthur shudders, pulling himself out of his reverie.

“So – they called for help, and you came?”

It sounds ridiculous, almost as if Merlin is some sort of faerie to pop up whenever he is needed, and Merlin must have caught Arthur’s quick smile, somehow, because he smiles back, fleeting but unmistakable.

“Yes.” Merlin nods. “In short, well, you’re right, I suppose. But there is the problem of getting them well out of Uther’s way, now.”

“You can’t – you know?” Arthur asks, then winces immediately. He tells himself he’ll break himself out of the habit of relying on Merlin for everything, every day, but – when there is a god at your disposal, that is something awfully hard to do. Merlin gives him an understanding look, a look that says more than words could ever say – that he would move mountains and oceans if Arthur asked, that Arthur needn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

It only serves to make Arthur guiltier.

Merlin thinks for a moment, tracing patterns onto the fabric of his trousers. “Perhaps. But – it’s not a sure thing. They would have to get out of Camelot, wouldn’t they? That’s quite far away. By myself, I could, probably, but – traveling through the fabric of the world is a complicated thing, you understand. I might end up dropping Cerdan here off in Mercia and Mordred somewhere in Cenred’s kingdom.”

“Oh.” That wouldn’t help much, that. “Then – the old-fashioned way, eh?”

Cerdan looks toward him, curious. Arthur feels respect for the man well up inside him – Arthur’s room is large even for a noble, anyone could probably tell that. And there is the problem of the Pendragon crest littered about his things, an unmistakable clue of who he is, whose son; and yet Cerdan’s gaze does not falter, steady and calm.

Arthur meets his gaze with a smile and a shrug.

“Hide-and-escape, of course.”

Arthur’s room, unfortunately, is not a good place to hide in.

Merlin could probably do something to conceal them, but Arthur doesn’t feel like rendering them invisible or some such for an unspecified amount of time – there is no way to know how long it will take until the guards decide to call of their search. No, Arthur thinks, there must be a better way.

The solution comes to him in a jolt.

Morgana, who, as a lady, can perfectly well discourage guards from going through her things (though, who would even dare? Morgana is a mean hand with a sword herself, and more than willing to demonstrate.) Morgana – Arthur remembers the time she’d gotten into terrible arguments with Uther, about why all these innocent people were burning at the pyre. _Why_ , why children, why women, no, why anyone at all. Yes, he thinks, Morgana will understand.

“Remember, she doesn’t know Merlin is Emrys,” Arthur says, before opening the door. Cerdan and Mordred nod dutifully along, mouthing ‘ _Mer-lin_ ’ like schoolchildren repeating after their tutor. There is something ridiculously solemn about the druids, and Arthur thinks that one day, he could come to love them as his people, too.

Morgana herself meets him at the door.

“Arthur, you do understand there is such a thing as a reasonable time to – wait, what is that?”

“No time,” Arthur whispers, desperate. “I’ll tell you once we’re inside.”

“There had better be a good reason for this,” Morgana says, and swings the door open.

Arthur knows that Morgana has a temper to match Uther’s and an impatience to exceed his. So he keeps his explanation short and to the point – excluding the parts, of course, about Merlin and his godly powers.

“You’re smuggling druids,” Morgana says, disbelief written blatant over her face. “You do understand, Arthur, that it would be must faster to simply execute them yourself? Save firewood, save manpower. Easy.”

It is a game Morgana plays often, Arthur knows, checking and double-checking, teasing men into revealing their deepest, darkest secrets before they even realize what exactly they had let slip. Arthur snorts, impatient. “Enough with the games, Morgana. I don’t have any intention of killing them. What did you exactly take ‘we’re going to take them out of Camelot and save them’ for?”

“Unbelievable,” Morgana says, shaking her head in disbelief. “And you call yourself Uther Pendragon’s son?”

“He may be my father, Morgana, but he isn’t always right. You know that better than anyone.”

“Unbelievable.” Morgana’s gaze is appraising, thorough, as if she is seeing Arthur for the first time all over again. She bites her lip, considering, and Arthur feels as if they are at the cusp of something big, something tremulous and trusting, something that might well change their relationship for good - then Morgana turns away and nods, decisive, and the spell is broken.

“Alright,” she says, brisk, clapping her hands together. “I think I know the perfect closet for this – quite sizable, and the front is full of my small-clothes; I don’t think there is a guard brave enough to dare try to search it. Now hurry on before they come.”

Merlin assures them that he’ll let them know once the guards are on their way (Arthur doesn’t ask how, but this is Merlin they are talking about; he always has his ways.) – so, without anything better to do, they strike up a conversation.

It’s surprisingly comfortable, Mordred and Cerdan secreted away in the wardrobe, Arthur and Merlin and Morgana scattered comfortably before the fire. They learn that Cerdan had been a harmless traveling merchant, specializing in trade of herbs and such, Mordred his apprentice. It is yet another painful reminder of the people who die wrongly at Uther’s pyres and cutting-boards, year after year, and Arthur’s fists clench out of his volition.

Cerdan somehow manages to catch Arthur sneaking a glance at Merlin and smiles, knowing. “Merlin is quite fair, is he not?” he says, and Arthur, blushing straight to the roots of his hair, woes the fact that Morgana is there – otherwise, he thinks, he would have gotten Merlin to turn the lot of them into rabbits.

“Oh, I always knew something had been going on between your two,” Morgana says, insufferably smug. “The looks you two give each other – that’s not something you see every day.”

“You sound like a meddling aunt, Morgana.” Arthur groans, but Morgana is a force of nature once she gets going, and Arthur isn’t foolish enough to try and stop her.

Later, Merlin does something to make sure Cerdan and Mordred won’t be found by the guards, discreet, only there if you’d been looking for it: a faint pulse through the air, the scent of rain-wet grass, there a moment, gone the next. Then, it is time for Arthur and Merlin depart for Arthur’s chambers. It won’t do to have scandalous gossip circulating about the crown prince, after all. And there is also the fact that their presence might rouse the guards’ suspicions.

True to their predictions, the guards begin making rounds of the castle rooms soon enough, and Arthur breathes a sigh of relief when no news of a boy and man being caught is heard.

“Have some faith in my skills,” Merlin tells him, and Arthur groans, head in his hands. “I do, believe me,” he replies, because if he can count on anything in this world it’s probably Merlin. “Doesn’t help the nerves much, though.”

Once night falls, Arthur and Merlin sneak back to Morgana’s chambers, silent and unseen, and pick Cerdan and Mordred up. The two, for all their robes and swishing cloaks, can sure move quieter than a shadow. Arthur watches in wonder as Merlin seems to _pull_ the fabric of the night itself over them, rendering them half-invisible, shadows in the night.

The journey to the outskirts of the castle is peaceful enough. Once they are sure that there isn’t anyone nearby, only the forest and the moon and them, Merlin reaches to peel back their disguises, and Mordred and Cerdan straighten, blinking. Arthur blinks, too – the sudden moonlight after Merlin’s shadowy shroud is too bright, too luminous, and Arthur has to wait a few moments before he can see well enough again.

“We will never forget this,” Cerdan says, bowing low. Mordred follows his suit. “We shall spread the word, too – that Emrys is returned to us. That you walk among us again.”

“Hold that thought,” Merlin says, voice regretful. “It is not time, yet. I stay still in the shadows.”

Arthur thinks he knows when the time for Merlin to throw off his disguise will be.

He wonders if he will ever be ready for it.

“Once – I am king,” he says, and his voice cracks a little near the end, because he isn’t ready – not by any stretch of the imagination, and the thought terrifies him. Still, he can be strong, will be strong, for them. “You will be welcome in the castle. I swear this by my honor.”

“And I believe you, young prince,” Cerdan says, and his eyes are knowing. “Remember this. The druids will not forget what you have done for us to-day.”

The gratitude is more than Arthur can bear to take in good conscience, and he settles for simply bowing back, head held low, until the two shadowy figures vanish into the night.

“You’ve done well, Arthur,” Merlin says, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Merlin’s lips are cool and just the slightest bit rough, and Arthur squirms away from it, laughing. “That feels strange,” he says, and when he turns around Merlin is smiling, too.

Merlin looks surreal, almost not of this world, limned in the silvery moonlight – blue eyes bright and sparkling, lashes a dark smudge against the paleness of his skin. Somewhere far away, a woodland bird is chirping, soft and low, a lullaby in its own right.

When he is king, Arthur thinks, this is exactly how he wants his kingdom to be.

▣

Nothing much happens for several more weeks or so. Spring begins to blend into summer, complete with the inevitable heat and sweat, and Arthur mops his face with the edge of his tunic as he steps into his chambers.

Merlin is tucked away into a corner, dusting Arthur’s desk with some feathery contraption (using his hands this time around, Arthur notes,) and the scene is so wonderfully mundane that Arthur can’t help but comment.

“It’s been awfully peaceful these days,” Arthur says, because it has. It’s an eerie if welcoming lull after week after week of tooth-rattling peril, but the quiet is a little unnerving. “I keep expecting some monstrous beast to pop out of the woodwork at any given moment.”

“You may be right to be cautious,” Merlin says, thoughtful. “Nimueh saw us that night, you know.”

Arthur doesn’t have to ask which night it was. The stench of the afanc still haunts his dreams, sometimes. “So – she knows who she’s up against?”

“Yes.” Merlin’s smile is wry. “I can’t believe I am saying this by my own volition, but to those with magic, when I am not hiding-” Merlin gestures towards himself, gold sparking off his fingertips, and Arthur understands. “I am rather unmistakable.”

“Got quite a high opinion of yourself, haven’t you,” Arthur jokes, eyes crinkling at the corners, and the duster Merlin had been using to brush off Arthur’s desk zooms towards him in retaliation. Arthur yelps.

“Hey, that’s cheating!”

“Perhaps, but you had that coming for you, you prat.” The word sounds less of an insult and more of an affectionate jibe, coming from Merlin. His blue eyes are twinkling with mirth. “Now hurry along and take a bath; I’ve got cool water ready for you.”

Arthur undresses as quickly as he can, his undershirt so soaked he has to literally peel it off with his hands. It is a shock at first, but once he gets used to it, the water feels heavenly. His mind wanders back towards the mysterious sorceress, once his body is settled in some. “So you think this Nimueh,” he says, taking care to enunciate the syllables the way he’s seen Merlin do, “is biding her time to get us?”

“Perhaps.” Merlin runs a hand through his unruly hair, ruffling it further. “But don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

And it’s strange, because Arthur hasn’t ever trusted anyone this easily, but it’s _Merlin_ , the god who could raze Camelot to the ground if he wished, who doesn’t, who loves him, who is here in disguise for him. Something warm and tremulous glows somewhere deep in Arthur’s heart, and he feels loved, cherished, safe.

“I know,” he says, and that is enough.

A few weeks later, as Arthur feels himself slipping away, head hitting the hard forest floor with a dull thump, the monstrous head of a beast out of a nightmare staring malignantly back at him, he thinks back on that conversation.

It isn’t Merlin’s fault, he knows. But he doesn’t know what Merlin will think, what he will be driven to do, and Arthur, for a split-second, feels sick to his stomach.

He hadn’t wanted to be another Will to Merlin. He hadn’t. But here he is, and he knows the way only a man who has seen death can know, that there isn’t much longer left, for him.

He shouldn’t have let himself go so soft.

But it’s too late, now.

▣

As always, when disaster strikes, it is without warning.

He should have been more careful, Merlin knows. But he is not used to dwelling among Mortals, so fragile, so easy to break, here then gone again, like a lone spark in the wind. But that is no excuse, not when he has failed Arthur, not when Arthur lies upon his bed, unbreathing and cold, racing closer to the point of no return with every passing moment.

Merlin is a god, perhaps the closest thing to all-powerful upon this earth, but even he has his limits, and –

He has failed Arthur.

Merlin isn’t quite sure if he can forgive himself at all.

Morgana had warned them.

Merlin was sure, by then, that the girl held the gift of the Sight – and so he had heeded that warning, when Arthur had passed it on to him. It had been more of a joke to Arthur, because – who would take it seriously? A strange beast, with a head like a snake and a body like a leopard’s, moving in jolting, stuttering bounds. Hilarious, it seems, a grotesque creation made to scare young children into eating their vegetables and bathing every other day. But Merlin had known what it was the moment he had heard, because it is a creature almost as old as the gods, a strange force of the balance that even Merlin cannot quite control.

A questing beast.

One bite is fatal, this Merlin knew, but oh, he had been so confident. He had driven off Nimueh’s beast, that hilarious knight with the shield with living snakes, that sorceress who had been determined to bring the whole castle down about their ears. And so he had thought he could fend off anything the world had to throw against his prince, because he is Emrys, immortal and nigh-invulnerable, and somewhere along the way, he had made the mistake to think that Arthur is, too.

Mortals die so easily. All it takes is a blow to the head, a quick swipe to the neck, or one, simple, poisonous bite.

Merlin should never have forgotten.

Arthur had not even been looking for the beast. A quick patrol into the woods, he’d said, and Merlin had let him go, with nothing but a peck on the cheek, because he had not imagined, never in his wildest dreams, that it would be the last.

One bite, and now –

Merlin pays the price.

Merlin almost loses control of himself.

The result would have been disastrous, he knows; the skies rent apart, lightning razing entire kingdoms down the the ground, tides larger than fortresses, winds that could cut through stone. But no, that is not what Arthur would have wanted, so he forces himself back into his mortal semblance, squeezes the blinding rage and power that is him back into the fragile, human shell he has created for himself.

He looks grotesque now, he is sure – light crackling about his seams, perhaps, eyes that glow like molten fire. He is too far gone to care.

There is a way, he knows, there _must_ be a way – Arthur’s death was not by any mortal steel, and it isn’t too late yet, still not too late. Arthur’s death had not been like Will’s, and – though Merlin had not been able to save his friend, he will save his prince, his king, his heart, if it is the last thing that he does.

So he gathers himself, lighting crackling about his form, and folds the fabric of the world about him, letting his will guide him to where he must go –

The Isle of the Blessed, birth-place of the gods, home of the high priests and priestesses of old.

Nimueh is waiting for him.

Merlin’s power finds her before he does, latching onto the bright, tainted beacon of power as soon as he sets foot upon the isle. There is something giant and primordial inside of him, urging him to crush and to _squeeze,_ to obliterate this mortal gnat who has dared to go toe-to-toe with the gods to nothingness. The sorceress’s beauteous face, pale-skinned and red-lipped, contorts into a mask of pain; and Merlin lets go, almost too late, as Nimueh falls to the ground, taking deep, gulping breaths.

The questing beast cannot be summoned by mortal means, Merlin knows, and yet –

He knows how ingenious humans can be, how devious. He knows how Nimueh had plotted from the shadows, to bring down the Pendragon line, father and son alike. And so his anger rages within him, a storm bottled in a teacup, as he faces the sorceress.

“I go to the altar,” Merlin grinds out, voice like booming thunder to his ears. “Do not stand in my way, and I may let you live.”

For all his years, for all his sins, Merlin has yet to strike down one of his own – one with the gift of magic. The sorceress Mary Collins, he remembers with a sick feeling in his gut, had chosen to end her life before he could judge her – and there is something about deliberately striking down one with magic, one who carries his Gift, that makes bile rise in his throat.

Nimueh has ever been perceptive. Her pretty red lips curve in a smile, eyes cold and calculating and so far eaten by vengeance so as to mask almost every other emotion, and she widens her stance, hand coming up to the level of her chest.

“I am sorry, milord,” she whispers, “but I refuse.”

Arthur is dying. Dead.

Merlin must save him. Must.

Because if not for Arthur, he will never be Merlin again – he knows, somehow, deep in his bones, that he would go back to being Emrys then, high, aloof, impersonal, and he will never know the warmth of another body again.

Desperation rises in him, hot and searing and blinding, laced with utter, terrible fury – this sorceress who dares play with Arthur’s life like a toy, a tool, who dares stand against him with a smile upon her lips.

Power swirls about him, escaping his control, swirling and crackling and lashing out towards anything within reach, and Merlin can’t hold himself in check, anymore.

“Then you have sealed your fate,” he says, a divine sentence passed, and lightning, thunderous, huge, a pillar of light upon the sky, strikes her down where she stands.

When Merlin strides forth towards the altar, and the golden, bejeweled cup it hosts, the smell of char follows him the entire way.

In the end, all it takes is a drop.

Merlin’s life is endless, immortal, and merely handing one cycle of it over to Arthur – no, it is nothing to him. Blood magic is a powerful thing, Merlin knows, and even as he holds the cup to Arthur’s lips he can feel the tentative threads forming, a bond that will – might – tie Arthur to him in ways that neither of them can predict nor understand.

Arthur might rage. Arthur might hate him for it.

But Arthur will be alive, so Merlin won’t care.

When Arthur’s eyes flutter open, Merlin almost misses it.

But those eyes, just a shade lighter than Merlin’s and twice as clear, the exact color of a clear spring day (Merlin’s, always Merlin’s) are unmistakable, and Merlin gasps, unable to speak. The goblet, now having served its purpose, clatters to the ground, forgotten.

For all the racket it makes, Arthur doesn’t even give the thing a glance.

“You’re crying,” he says, voice hoarse from disuse, and Merlin brings a hand up to his face. He feels something wet and hot, a stinging about his eyes, and Merlin realizes – oh, Arthur is right.

The past few days crash over him in a dizzying rush, the suffocating fear, then pain, pain beyond anything he’s ever known, almost – how he had struck the priestess down, deliberate and in a fit of blinding-hot rage, and bile threatens to rise in his throat again.

( _The terrible crunch of bones being charred to nothingness, the smell of burning flesh._ )

But Arthur is breathing, breath stuttering but warm against his cheeks, hand fumbling tentatively against his own, and that is all Merlin could ever have wished for and more.

“Don’t leave me again,” he rasps, hoarse, and Arthur’s eyes meet his.

“I won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Long End Note.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I actually really loved writing this (anyone, guess which scene was my favorite? There were quite a few, really...:> A large shout-out goes to whoever manages to guess it right!) and I hoped you enjoyed reading it too.
> 
> That being said, I have been thinking a lot about my writing these days - I've had some opportunities (joining a writing club, for one) that's led me to sit down and think seriously about this series. And then - it suddenly didn't feel planned out well enough, it didn't seem interesting enough, and it was all downhill from there. What if I'm writing something no-one is interested to read about? What if every time I write a new installment in the series, I'm adding something unnecessary that only detracts from the initial charm of part 1?  
> The obvious solution in that case would be to re-plan and rewrite, but I don't think I have the energy for that. So I wanted to ask - what do you all think? Should I continue, or leave this series at an end here?  
> I have the synopsis I'd written for the rest of the series, so if you are interested about following this tale to the end (three more works, spanning into the modern day) I would be happy to write it. And you wouldn't have to worry about stressing me out about writing it, because I really do enjoy writing about Merlin the god and Arthur the prince, though updates may be slow and/or in-between different writing projects. On the other hand, if you all think you'd like it better if I just left it off at here, than I would be happy to acquiesce also. Then, of course, that would mean this work would be the last work in this series.  
> So, please, let me know what you think, (and again - I do not mind either way, so please tell me your honest opinions!) and stay Happy and stay Safe!


	2. Author's Note

Author’s Note

I think everyone who has read <Gathering Clouds> knows that I’ve been debating whether to discontinue this or not. I’d gotten so many exceedingly kind comments that I’d thought, yes, I can do this, I probably ought to, but the conclusion is:

**The <Chasing Spring> series is discontinued as of today.**

It was a highly impulsive decision when I’d decided to turn the one-shot <Chasing Spring> into a series, and I hadn’t planned it half as well as I should have for a project of its size. And then the semester began, and I took a nose-dive into my old fandom – the Silmarillion – and then I realized I’d turned writing <Chasing Spring> into a chore rather than something to be enjoyed, savored, nitpicking over details and worrying whether the plot was sound or not. I felt that anything more I write in such a state couldn’t be halfway decent, and so – the decision. I might decide to pick it up again in a while, or I might not; but as of now we must bid farewell to the Emrys-Merlin and Arthur of this universe.

<Chasing Spring>was my first in many ways. It was most certainly one of my most well-received one-shots, and also my first attempt at a series. It’s the most pages I’ve ever written for a single work, the first time I’d asked people for their opinions on my work, the first time I’d had someone beta-read for me…… Thank you so much for bearing with me; I know I’ve rambled exceedingly in the author’s notes and have probably changed my mind more often than is healthy, and I really, truly appreciate all the support everyone has given me.

As an apology of sorts, I’ve added the first draft of what I’d written for the next installment in the next chapter after this, so if anyone is interested, you may go and check it out. (Though, warning: it ends with something of a cliffhanger, and since I don't plan to pick it up again at least for a long, long while, if you don't think you'll like that it may be better not to read. :( ) That being said, again, thank you so much to all who’ve stuck around so far, and I hope you all stay happy and safe!

Love,

Gimli’s Pickaxe


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first draft of Rending Skies (as far as it's written), for any who are interested.

**Rending Skies**

Part 4 of the Chasing Spring series

Arthur will live.

Merlin eases himself onto his bed – a cot, really, attached to Arthur’s chambers, but Merlin doesn’t think he could bear to let Arthur out of his sight just now – and closes his eyes. Then he snaps them open again. He can’t stop seeing Nimueh’s grimace, her dying scream, like a series of images burned onto his eyelids. It’s two – three? – threats against Arthur that Merlin has stopped, now, but Merlin is only now realizing that it won’t be the end.

How many people have grudges against Uther? How many will be willing to take it out on the man’s son? Countless, Merlin thinks. He had been foolish, thinking that he could keep Arthur safe with nearly no effort at all.

Merlin has killed for Arthur, now. It is a little different from the winter curse – that had been more an extension of his emotions than anything else, the way his insides had felt frozen over, icy cold, apathetic. But Nimueh – he had struck her down, felt his own power overwhelming hers, the exact moment that once-bright spark had winked out of existence. Merlin feels dirty, tainted, and bites his lip.

He has seen death. It is impossible to live as long as Merlin without seeing death. But snuffing out a life, for someone –

But Merlin has no idea what the future has in store of Arthur, and he lingers on a precipice, teetering. Will he kill for Arthur again?

And then Merlin realizes that there had only ever been one answer to that question. He will keep Arthur safe, he promises, whatever he must do.

_Arthur will live._

Merlin’s visions are troubled when he slips onto the path of dreams. He doesn’t sleep, not as mortals do, but sometimes he lets his essence wander along the dream-paths, towards wherever it will. Today he sees a dizzying blur of blood, death, anguish, despair, and the scream of sorcerers as they are burnt alive at the pyre – the sizzling crack as marrow melts against bone.

Then he is moving back, back, until the visions finally halt long enough for Merlin to get his bearings – it is nearly twenty years past, and Morgause’s intense eyes are boring into him, blue and sizzling hot.

“You will do nothing,” she spits, incredulous. Yes, Merlin remembers that day. The goddess had ever been passionate, and Merlin thinks she had never been more disappointed in him than that fateful day.

“I can’t, Morgause, can’t you see that?”

It is eerie, watching himself from afar, almost like a twisted vision out of a mirror.

“No. All I see is a coward afraid to fight for what is right.”

“I cannot condone that much bloodshed, Morgause, you know that.”

“You are the best of us, they said, the one with power to move the world itself,” the goddess hisses. “And yet you turn your back on them.”

“I don’t – I don’t know what is _right_ , now, don’t you understand?”

His own voice, frayed at the edges, sparks of golden power escaping his hold.

“No. I will remember this moment, Emrys, and Uther will pay. I will never forget.”

Eyes mottled silver by the moonlight. Merlin watches, helpless, as Morgause spins around and vanishes into the darkness, a goddess fallen, powerless, yet straight and tall and proud. Wrath and grudges woven into every step of her feet.

He wakes with the image of Morgause’s blazing eyes graven into his mind.

The heart of Merlin’s mortal body pumps furiously, sending blood rushing through his veins. Merlin gasps, catching his breath. A strange panic gnaws at him, and he releases his senses, seeking out the bright golden blaze that is Arthur, before sighing in relief. Yes, Arthur is safe.

Merlin wonders for a moment if he ought to go check on Arthur, then decides against it. Arthur is perceptive enough to wake up at his presence, and the prince needs all the rest he can get. But then – there must be something, some disturbance, that had woken him in the middle of the night. He frowns, letting tendrils of his power seep through the castle, searching out any and all discrepancies that might have arisen over the night.

Then he finds it. Morgana’s chambers, he realizes. The girl’s magic is rampaging like a caged animal, lashing out at everything around it.

Ah. Merlin had known this day would come, sooner or later.

_The witch’s quickening_.

Merlin’s first instinct is to stifle. He can do that – pluck the magic from Morgana, with Morgana herself none the worse for the wear. He could keep her magic under tight binds that none but he himself can break, let her lead as non-magical a life as she might wish. It would be the wise course, Merlin thinks – Uther’s purge is both terrible and stifling, and there is no guessing how one as proud as Morgana may react. And if Arthur ever should stand with his father against her -

Merlin cannot – will not – risk the possibility that Arthur may be hurt. He cannot.

But Merlin thinks of the wild rush of magic, the feeling of the very earth itself breathing in time with him, like golden-bright lightning in his heart, and he falters.

Just one more day, he tells himself. Then he will decide.

The next day, Morgana looks terrible – dark circles underline her eyes, and her lips are chapped and white. Her hair is the slightest bit frazzled, as if she had forgotten to run a comb through it, and Merlin feels the shudder and quake of the magic inside her, can hear her frantic heartbeat.

She is lost, she is terrified, and though Merlin could choose to delve into her mind and _know_ he doesn’t. He doesn’t need to.

It might be a blessing, he thinks, ready to settle his will upon hers, eliminate this possible threat to Arthur forever. Merlin thinks of Nimueh, of Morgause, the wronged goddess who had vanished from the world at whole. He remembers looking upon Arthur’s pale, unmoving body, an endless litany of _No’s_ circling like a cyclone through his head.

Merlin raises his hand. He doesn’t need the gesture, of course, but it has become a habit, of sorts – it feels like it makes him more human, somehow, more like a sorcerer than a god. (Though he is anything but, and he understands.)

Morgana turns, slanted sunlight wreathing her in a pale halo, a faint freckle on her nose picked out in sharp relief, and Merlin – can’t.

Should she ever come to threaten Arthur, raise a finger against him, Merlin thinks, he will end her.

He will

He must.

But that is not for today.

▧▨▧

Autumn finds Camelot with an unexpected guest.

“Lancelot!” Arthur exclaims, surprised and pleased in equal measure. The man is as ruggedly handsome as ever, though his skin has turned a shade darker over the time that he’s been away. “What brings you here?”

“I – felt that I’d wandered long enough,” he says, scratching his head. It isn’t something Arthur is used to seeing on the man, this awkwardness, and then he catches Lancelot eyeing Gwen with a faint blush on his cheeks. Ah, so it’s _that_ after all, isn’t it? Arthur is well aware that the maid had been busy sending off letters into the night, and now he thinks he’s got a good idea of where they’d been headed.

“Took you long enough,” Arthur grins. It feels right with the man here in Camelot, somehow, almost like how it had been when Merlin had moved in – except less. Nothing, Arthur supposes, measures up to the god. And that’s only fair; he is a literal deity, and that should probably count for something. “So are you ready to take on my offer now?”

“Oh, Sire, I couldn’t,” Lancelot replies, flustered. “I am honored, I really am, but – I know the law. I won’t break it just to get to a position where I can uphold it.”

“True,” Merlin says, eyes sparkling. His blue eyes are merrier than they had been in days, striking against the backdrop of the pale, blue sky. “You have to admit that what he’s saying makes sense.”

“I thought you were on my side,” Arthur grumbles, jabbing Merlin’s ribs good-naturedly.

_I am_ , Merlin replies, his voice resounding through Arthur’s skull. It’s relatively new, Merlin speaking into his head, but Arthur has found it to be incredibly useful at times – especially in council meetings, when Merlin’s wry commentary often has Arthur working hard to keep the sides of his mouth from twitching up. _But I can only speak the truth, yes? Upholder of the Balance and all that._

_Show-off_ , Arthur thinks at Merlin. Lancelot and Gwen seem to have wrapped their reunion up, now, and they’re standing side-by-side, hands entwined. They look ridiculously picturesque, as if showing the whole world that this is what true love looks like, and Arthur smothers a grin. They’re the sort of couple that would have been disgustingly sweet but for the fact that both of them are so overwhelmingly nice; trying to begrudge them is almost like kicking a puppy in the face.

A strand of Merlin’s power runs down Arthur’s spine, almost as if to remind Arthur that he has someone too. It’s right – Arthur has been alone for so long that it almost feels foreign to imagine that he has someone to go back to. But Merlin’s touch is warm and solid, like being wrapped in a blanket of clouds turned physical, and Arthur lets himself relax into it.

Yes, he thinks, he won’t forget.

Lancelot settles into Camelot without much trouble. Gwen’s father has managed to get him a job as an assistant in the forge, and Lancelot thrives there – apparently, skill at arms translates into skills with them, at least in his case. His calm temper and eye for detail are both great assets in the forge.

“He’s happy,” Gwen says, looking up at Arthur. She looks happy, too, and the afternoon sun sets her warm, dark skin positively aglow. Ah, so this is what it is like to be in love. Morgana has sent the girl to Arthur’s chambers on the grounds that she ‘ought to get a change of scenery, from time to time’, but Arthur has a niggling suspicion that something else is at play here. His suspicions are confirmed when Gwen pauses before him after putting all the laundry away, wringing her hands nervously.

“Come on, sit,” Arthur says. “I’m not going to eat you.”

Gwen laughs, though it comes out more like a strained yelp, and sits.

“So – you had something you wanted to ask me?”

“Yes,” Gwen admits. She’s never been a good liar, and so this time she doesn’t even try. “I asked Morgana – lady Morgana – if I could be excused to tend after your chambers, just this once. Merlin agreed to trade with me.”

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, surprised. Merlin has been on edge, somehow, since Arthur has returned from near-death – the god has not explained how exactly he’d brought Arthur back from the brink of death, but the haunted look in his eyes is enough to deter Arthur from asking for details. He’s seen the shadows Merlin tries to hide, the way his fingers twitch whenever he thinks Arthur might be in danger. Arthur hasn’t let on that he knows about the wards on his doors – an assassin from some foreign kingdom or the other had screamed in agony before bolting in the opposite direction – and Arthur is quite sure that those aren’t the only protection Merlin has laved upon him.

He allows his god that indulgence. He’s already sworn that he wouldn’t be yet another Will to him.

Still, it’s strange that the god had agreed to leave Arthur’s side at all, and Arthur nibbles on his lip. Is this another divine think he isn’t allowed to know about?

“Yes,” Gwen replies, tentative. “Did you – need him for something? I could always – tell him, you know.”

“No, it’s alright.” Arthur shakes his head once, hard, to get rid of the cobwebs that are crowding in on his thoughts. “So, you were saying?”

“Ah, that.” The tension in the room is almost palpable. A mote of dust drifts, absent, across the window, and sends a dappling shadow over the rough fabric of Gwen’s skirt. The girl takes a deep breath, two, then the words gush out of her like a stream.

“ _IknowaboutMerlin,_ ” she says.

“Pardon?”

“I know.” Gwen fans herself with a hand, flustered. “About – Merlin.”

“Oh.”

It’s a neutral phrase that could mean just about anything, but Arthur fancies that he has quite a good idea what exactly this is about. He should have told Merlin that blowing up in front of dungeons isn’t good for subterfuge when he’d still had the chance. The way the very air had shimmered about him, like it couldn’t quite decide how to flow around the deity, the glittering sparks, the way Arthur couldn’t breathe straight – yes, unmistakable, and Arthur knows for a fact that Gwen is no stupid girl. She must have known _something._ But to speak, so definitively –

Gwen’s brown eyes are honest, unapologetic. “He’s Emrys, isn’t he?”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that. Suddenly, he feels every thread of the fabric beneath his legs, every slight breeze that skims across his cheeks. It is almost as if the world itself holds its breath. Arthur sighs. “What made you think so?”

Gwen’s expression shows beyond doubt that she knows what he’s doing. She frowns, but answers, dutifully. “The way he appeared a little while after the curse was ended. The way the curse ended just as you returned from your ‘reconnaissance trip’ with Sir Leon, the way he seems inexplicably attached to you at the hip.” Gwen shrugs. “I think I’ve known for a while, now.”

Arthur’s shoulders sag. Gwen’s logic is sound, and it’s true that he’d known that Gwen knew more than she let on – the way she looked at Merlin sometimes, perhaps. It’s difficult to pin down, but it’s there, nonetheless. Still, Merlin’s secret isn’t his to share, and Arthur bites his lip, considering.

Arthur feels the soft brush of Merlin’s consciousness against his. _It’s alright_ , Merlin says, the cadence of his voice soft, amused. _She is a friend, after all._

Well, that does uncomplicated things a bit. “You seem to be taking the revelation quite well,” he says, because she is. Arthur himself had needed a whole year to come to terms with it all, after all. Gwen shrugs, eyes on her toes.

“He’s been a good friend to me,” she says. “And I don’t think what exactly he is should be that important, with all that.”

The girl has a quiet sort of strength about her, and suddenly, Arthur is reminded of Lancelot – the way the man had faced near-certain death at the hand of a mythical beast, steady, unwavering. A match made in heaven indeed. “Well,” Arthur ends up saying, “I say that tells me you’re much better than me. So – that was what you’d wanted to see me about?”

“Well, basically, yes,” Gwen says, sheepish. “But – that’s not all. It’s about Lancelot.”

“Lancelot?” Arthur blinks. “I thought you said you were happy?”

“Yes, I am – we are, but – well. I want to tell him about Merlin.”

Oh.

That is something quite big.

Gwen must have taken Arthur’s silence as a rejection, because she bites her lip, dejected. “I understand why you might not want to let the story get out. But – I feel horrible, lying to him every day – he thinks that Merlin is a boy with a little bit of sorcery up his sleeve, nothing more, nothing less. It’s just – well.” She shrugs. “It’s alright, though. I wasn’t trying to pressure you into anything.”

Arthur thinks for a moment how it would feel to keep a secret from Merlin. He could, he thinks, because he was born into this business – politics is dirty business, and he knows couriers who tell twice the amount of lies for as many minutes. But it would eat away at him nonetheless, he knows, and the thought of such a chasm being driven between himself and the boy is nearly unbearable.

Arthur’s heart twinges in sympathy.

“I’ll talk to him about it,” Arthur promises. Gwen’s answering smile, wavering and tentative, is positively the most radiant thing he’s seen in days.

▨

Merlin lingers for a moment outside of Morgana’s door. He hadn’t been much surprised when Gwen had asked him to trade with him – he’d known that she knew who he was for a while, now; there’s always something different in the way people treat him when they _know._ And it had been a good chance to take a look at how Morgana’s been faring, so he had not refused.

Merlin sends off a brief reassurance at Arthur’s turmoil – _it’s alright, you can tell her_ – and a fond smile comes to his lips. There’s something sweet and innocent about those two, even Arthur, for all the blood he’s probably spilt. His prince. His.

Merlin takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. Morgana is in the bed, strange for her – she has always been an active young woman, never at rest, bustling about the castle and training-fields. But now she’s like a ghost of herself – she’s gaunt, somehow, and blurred about the edges, almost like a mirage waiting to depart.

How many days since her magic has woken?

Two weeks, Merlin realizes. And she looks worse than he’s ever seen her.

His heart aches. It shouldn’t, because it isn’t real – none of Merlin’s mortal raiment is real, because he is the earth, the weave and stretch of the fabric of the world. But still it does, dull and throbbing, the suffering of one of his own.

_Arthur_ , Merlin tells himself. Always Arthur first. He cannot bear to lose him.

Still……

Morgana stirs in her bed, a brave smile gracing her lips. “Come on, Merlin,” she teases. “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare? It’s alright, though; I won’t tell. Heaven knows you need more entertainment anyway – Arthur is boring enough as he is.”

Merlin cracks a smile despite it all. “Careful,” he says, “or I might be obliged to send you off to the stocks.”

“Pshhh.” Morgana snorts. “And pigs will fly.”

“Mayhap they do,” Merlin shrugs, wriggling his fingers. “You never know.”

Mogana pales, stiffening like a board, and Merlin bites his lip, realizing his mistake. He notices Morgana has gotten new drapes.

He feels the residue of magic, a faint taint in the air, and understands.

_Oh._

Without another word, Merlin turns toward Morgana’s armoire, which is something of a city unto its own. He’s just finished folding in the last dress-gown when a jangling crash sounds to his right.

A jolt of magic, not his – Morgana’s. He turns, still, and Morgana’s expression is that of hunted prey. The vase her magic has knocked over is across the room, far from both the window and from her reach, and her heart beats out a rapid drumbeat against the silence of the room.

One of his.

So afraid.

And Merlin’s decision is made.

With the barest flick of his wrist, he wills the vase whole again, letting the barest glimmer of the white-gold of his power dance about his eyes.

Silence for one heartbeat, two.

“ _You_ ,” Morgana whispers.

The change in Morgana is almost palpable.

There’s a healthy blush about her cheeks, now, the old glimmer returned to her eyes. She drags Merlin to her bed, and they sit side-by-side like old schoolmates. “I can’t believe you,” Morgana exclaims. “Two weeks, Merlin, and I’d thought-“

Merlin can read between the lines easy enough. _I thought I had been going insane. I thought I was going to die_. He winces.

“I don’t know everything, you know,” he offers, which is probably the truth. He shouldn’t know; he’s never really tested the limits to his powers before. He’s a little terrified to know.

Morgana snorts. “I know how fast gossip travels between servants,” she says. “But I am a kind mistress, and I am forgiving you. So – when?”

“Since birth,” Merlin replies, and that isn’t a lie, either. He flicks a finger, lazily, and a small golden dragon poofs into existence over their heads. It stomps merrily about spewing green-gold sparks before it dissipates into a shower of celandines. Morgana’s eyes are wide. Then she punches Merlin’s shoulder, hard. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“I suppose I deserved that,” Merlin says. Morgana nods sagely. “Yes, you dollop-headed prat.”

“Hey, those are my words!”

“Mine too, now. I am the king’s ward, you know; my word is law.”

Their eyes meet, stormy blue against sea-glass green, and without another word, they burst into laughter.

They don’t stop for a while after that.

Arthur, a small voice nags at the back of Merlin’s consciousness.

Merlin pauses, then forces it down.

▨

“Why not?” is Merlin’s answer, once Arthur broaches the subject of Lancelot to him. Arthur is glad, but that doesn’t stop the pang of exasperated concern that blossoms up in him. Merlin’s trademark insouciance is perhaps one of the things Arthur loves most about him, the haughty, elegant arrogance of a god sure in his own power, but still – he cares for Merlin, doesn’t want him hurt. And for that to happen, he thinks, Merlin must be a lot more careful.

“You shouldn’t be so quick to answer,” he says. Merlin’s eyes meet his, then, and there are galaxies and deaths of entire worlds in them – Arthur is reminded, suddenly and inexorably, of who exactly is sitting across him. “I know,” Merlin replies. “But – I’ve Seen him. And I trust him.”

Arthur remembers how the first time looking into Merlin’s eyes had felt, that piercing gaze eating into his defenses, stripping every last subterfuge bare and leaving his bare soul free for his scrutiny. He doesn’t have much to say to that. “Alright, then. Tell Lancelot it is.”

Gwen is ecstatic when Arthur tells her. “I am so glad,” she exclaims, bubbly enthusiasm making Arthur want to smile back. “But – to be honest, I think I’d known already. I found this on my bed the other day.”

Looking around suspiciously (Arthur manages to hold back from telling her that it would make them look even more suspicious, if anything), she pulls out a small, copper-gold flower out of the front pocket of the apron. It’s the color Lancelot’s skin turns under the autumn sun, and Arthur is pretty sure that it isn’t a species that exists anywhere on Earth.

“Oh,” he says. Then he shakes his head, exasperatedly fond. “The show-off.”

“It’s endearing, though,” Gwen says, sounding like a proud sister presiding over her baby brother’s first crawl. “So, then, we have much to plan; let’s get to work.”

Gwen is an exacting taskmaster, brisk and firm though not cruel, and Arthur finds himself sucked into her whirlwind frenzy of arranging an ‘occasion fit for Lancelot’s revelation.’

“I want it to be perfect,” Gwen admits, wiping her hands down on the fabric of her skirt. “It’s a big gesture, I know that – you’re trusting Lancelot with this, and I don’t want it to pass by like any other day.”

Arthur doesn’t have much to say to that. “I think those sweetmeats weren’t essential, though,” he teases. It’s a well-established fact that they are Lancelot’s favorite food, and he’d caught Gwen begging the cook for extras just the other night – really, the two of them were adorable. Gwen flushes. “Oh, Arthur,” she says, hiding her face in her hands. “Now run along; I want to know that Gaius is free that night.”

“The cruelest seamstress in all of the five kingdoms,” Arthur grins. “You’ve got the crown prince of Camelot wrapped about your little finger.”

_“Arthur!”_

Arthur takes the hint and leaves.

Lancelot is surprisingly calm as Arthur tells him there’s something he needs to know.

“I am honored by your trust,” he says, sincere and simple. “I will do my best not to betray it.”

Arthur feels like he’s the one who should be honored – the way Lancelot says those words, as if he means every one of them, as if they are the only response that makes sense, is enough to make even Arthur feel overwhelmed. Whatever has he done to merit this?

“I’m sure you will,” Arthur says, awkward, because he’s never been good at talking feelings. Lancelot smiles. Arthur has a feeling that he understands.

The Day of Revelation comes around soon enough, and Gaius’ room is filled to the brim. There’s Gwen, fidgeting and fussing with the trailing trellises of vines Merlin has grown in the middle of the room. Gaius is busy tucking stray books and rags away, the occasional vial or two tinkling as they bump against each other. Merlin sits in the middle of the room, making golden fire dance across his palm – he looks like he couldn’t be more relaxed, but Arthur knows the god well enough to know that he is apprehensive.

A pity Leon couldn’t come, Arthur thinks. The knight has been busy out by the borders for nearly half a year, now; Arthur has the nagging feeling that Uther suspects something about his and Leon’s latest ‘quest’ and is conspiring to keep them apart for as long as possible. He will have to do something about that, soon – but there is only so much the crown prince can do against the king, and Arthur holds back a sigh of frustration.

There doesn’t seem much that Arthur can do to help, so he plops down next to Merlin, nudging the boy sideways so as to make space. “You shouldn’t worry, you know,” Arthur says. “By all rights you could turn the lot of us into chattering chipmunks – that’s quite an advantage, there.”

Merlin cracks a grin. “Oh, I’m sure I could get more creative than that,” he says.

“Is that so?” Arthur asks, a challenging glint creeping into his eyes at the familiar banter. It’s something he’s started for Merlin, but somehow, it’s helping with the butterflies Arthur didn’t even know he had. “Surprise me.”

Merlin grins, snapping his fingers, and Arthur yelps as a strange tingle starts up near his spine. “You don’t get to electrocute me!”

Merlin shrugs, smiling, but his expression grows grim mere moments later. “It’s not the telling that worries me,” he admits, voice quiet. His eyes are a thousand miles away. “It’s the after.”

“After?” Arthur asks, dumbfounded.

“Yes, after.” Merlin spreads his fingers, palm up, and a small cyclone starts up on top of it, white flurries blending into icy sleet and cutting winds. It’s small, smaller than Arthur’s fist, but Arthur can feel its power from where he is. “Who wouldn’t be afraid of someone who could kill you with less than a thought? Humans aren’t always reasonable, Arthur. Some fears trump everything else.”

Arthur thinks back to when Merlin had smote down the wyverns, back in Ealdor, remembers the blistering heat, that feeling of sheer helplessness, the realization that he is nothing but a mote of dust in the grand scheme of things. Arthur thinks he understands.

Still, he reaches out, taking Merlin’s hand in his. The god lets out a gasp, back jolting straight, and waits, tensed.

“You know,” Arthur says, “he might take his time, true. But if he doesn’t end up coming around, he’s not worthy of you.”

“You don’t know that,” Merlin replies.

“I do.” Arthur keeps his voice firm. “I know everything, you know. Benefits of being a prince.”

“Prat.”

Merlin’s voice is fond, the slightest tremble near the end, and when he smiles, there is a watery sheen to his eyes.

Lancelot is perfectly courteous once he arrives. His characteristic calm is so incongruous with the weight of the upcoming revelation that it’s almost hilarious, in a way. Arthur suppresses a huffing laugh; Lancelot turns to him with a tilt to his head, curious. Arthur waves the other man’s concern off.

“So,” Lancelot says, once everyone is seated and ready. “What is it that – you had to talk to me about?”

“That.” Arthur bites his lip. They have a general idea of how this should go – Merlin offering some indisputable evidence of who and what he is, Arthur and the rest taking over damage control afterwards. But there are an entire horde of butterflies in Arthur’s stomach, his hands are sweaty, and this is so much more difficult than Arthur could ever have imagined. There’s something about actually _meaning_ to reveal the god’s secret that has Arthur’s head spinning and mouth burning dry.

Merlin’s eyes meet Arthur’s. He nods, almost imperceptible, then lets go.

The air in the room grows heavy and poignant, the fine hairs on the back of Arthur’s hand standing up, and a soft, golden glow permeates the air. Arthur smells the sweet-fresh scent of grass the day after a summer storm, the biting tang of a cold winter’s day. Merlin stands in the center of the room, scintillating bright and brilliant, the weave of the room bending and rippling about him – and there is no thinking of him as a mere sorcerer, for they are in a presence of a god older than time.

Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

_Lancelot._

Arthur dares sneak a glance at the man. Lancelot’s mouth is hanging half open, and Arthur wrestles down a streak of vicious satisfaction – that the unflappable Lancelot can be moved, can be shocked beyond words. Merlin, for all the power he wields, wears his heart on his sleeve, and Arthur can’t – won’t – make Merlin suffer for some petty jealousy of his.

“Say something,” Arthur says, nudging Lancelot with his elbow. “You can stop staring, too. He’s already taken, you know.”

“Oh, you’re going public after all,” Gwen grins, eyes sparkling with mirth, and Arthur can’t fault her for her fun – he had that coming for him, what with all his ribbing about Lancelot over the past week or so. Then Lancelot huffs a laugh, shaking his head, and the spell is broken.

“Well,” he says at last, then pauses for a moment. He has ever been cautious in choosing what to say and what not to. Right now, with Merlin back in his mortal form and leaning imperceptibly closer, tension in every lone of his body, Arthur appreciates his tact. “I suppose what my village elders said was true.”

“Elders?” Arthur asks, curious.

“Yes. You know, don’t your vegetables, it is the gods’ will that all living things be treated with reverence, the like. Actually, if that is true, I do have a bone to pick with you – I’d got many a good talking-to for that.”

Lancelot’s expression is utterly deadpan but for the teasing slant of his mouth, and Merlin ends up laughing out loud.

“Don’t worry,” he manages to gasp, at last. “I don’t judge.”

Food and drink pass about freely after that. Gaius is positively beaming. Any further and his cheeks will be aching well into the next week, Arthur thinks, hiding a fond smile in his goblet. (Won’t do to have talk of the crown prince growing soft, after all.) He looks so proud, as if Merlin and Arthur are his little boys and he’s just sent them out to the world, and there’s something suspiciously warm and happy that’s growing somewhere in Arthur’s heart.

Merlin is near bursting at the seams, too, and Arthur is only now beginning to understand what a burden staying in hiding might have been for him. Sparks of every imaginable color dance about his fingertips as he gesticulate, golden-white dancing about his skin and his eyes, and Arthur watches, mesmerized. He isn’t just a god with power – he is power itself, magic and exuberance and joy, and he is utterly dazzling when he is being himself.

Stories are traded, Arthur and Merlin’s escapades against plotting sorcerers and ravenous beasts (though Nimueh is still a wound too fresh, and Arthur doesn’t press.) – Lancelot is a great audience, attentive and sincere, and he even manages to gasp at all the appropriate places. Soon, everyone is scattered across the room in satisfied clumps, and Arthur lets himself soak in the afterglow of wine, deep and heady and thrumming satisfyingly through his veins.

_Family_ , he thinks, and in a strange, funny way, it’s true – friendship and love, bonding them together into something almost as strong as a tie of blood. Sweet, earnest Gwen, Gaius, the proud grandfather, clever and world-wise, Lancelot – brave and true and loyal,

He is broken out of his reverie at a tap on his shoulder. Lancelot is standing a little ways back.

“Nothing much really,” he says, “but – there’s something I wonder if you should know about.”

“Should?”

“I’d come across it over my travels, hadn’t thought much of it,” Lancelot says, sheepish. He settles down next to Arthur, long legs folding awkwardly against the blankets and cushions Gwen has brought. “But as I was listening to stories about your escapades around Camelot, today – I wondered if perhaps I hadn’t been right to dismiss them so easily.”

Arthur swallows, mouth suddenly dry. His head is spinning a little; he isn’t too sure it’s because of the wine.

“What – what is it?”

“Sorcerers.” Lancelot bites his lip. “Or at least – I think so. I don’t know what, Arthur, but there’s something strange about all the villages I’ve been to. An awful suspicious lot of hooded people sitting around in taverns, whispers of an uprising, the like. I hadn’t thought it to be serous, people are always talking about how hard life is, after all, but.” He shrugs. “That talk about the afanc, those sorcerers you’ve fought off – I don’t know. Maybe it isn’t anything to be worried about, really.”

“Maybe,” Arthur agrees, but a heavy coldness is settling into his gut. Lancelot may be right – it may be nothing much – but Arthur has a bad feeling about this all. “But I think we’d best keep an eye on things.”

▧▨▧

Once Merlin hears from Arthur about the things Lancelot told him, he stretches his senses out immediately. It’s almost dizzying, the feeling of expanding so _fast_ , so far, but once Merlin feels himself settle into the firmament of the earth, stretched across the entirety of Albion, it is also like coming home.

He doesn’t feel anything out of the ordinary – there isn’t any magic spiraling out of control, no magic leashed to torture or kill or maim – but that isn’t enough to say there isn’t anything left to worry about, either. Should he –

No.

Merlin wants Arthur to stay safe at all cost, but there are still some lines he’s not ready to cross. It’s a fine line between vigilance and tyranny, and Merlin knows he’s toeing it enough as he is. No, he will not commit the indignity of wresting the privacy of their own mine from his people.

“Thinking about Arthur again? Really, Merlin, there’s such a thing as too much infatuation.”

Morgana is radiant in a green gown that offsets her eyes, complete with a bold, dipping neckline and the thinnest chain of gold about her waist. She stands with her hands upon the windowsill of her room, pale autumn sun sending slanted shadows across her face. Merlin grins. “You’re just jealous,” he says, brandishing a stray scarf he’d been folding. “Really, Morgana, you could always just come out and say so.”

“That’s the stocks for you.” She replies, without much heat. She looks more comfortable than she’d been at months; her magic rests inside her, simmering bright but still sated. Looking at her, Merlin cannot bring himself to regret having revealed his magic to her. (Though it is but the tip of the iceberg – still, Merlin isn’t ready to tell her all. Not yet.)

Merlin flicks a finger and sends a stray clump of dust flying at her. Morgana blinks, dumbfounded, then ends up laughing out loud. “Cheating – I can’t even do that yet.”

“Well, I am a little special, you know.”

“That you are.”

Morgana considers him with shrewd eyes, gaze level and steady. There’s something in those depths, the faintest glimmer of recognition, and Merlin wonders if she sees more than she lets on. He wouldn’t put it past the girl. Then Morgana turns back towards the window, gesturing for him to go on with his chores, and the moment is broken.

A few days later, Morgana catches him in an empty corridor. “I want you to teach me magic,” she says. Merlin pauses, considering. It is true that he misses the company of his people, the spark and rush of his power meeting theirs – but still, Uther is a shadow that hangs over them all, and Merlin is wary. One of the most terrifying things about the woman is her indomitable will, burning fiery and bright, and Merlin does not wish to risk the possibility that she might one day turn against the Pendragons.

Still.

“I’m not a good teacher,” he warns, and that much is true. Merlin’s power is like a second limb to him, an intrinsic part of himself, and more often than not, he doesn’t even need to think.

He wills. Things happen.

Such is the way of Emrys.

Morgana snorts. “I don’t think that matters much when you’re the only bloody teacher in the entire castle,” she says. “Look, I’ve put some thought into this – you can’t imagine what I felt when I realized that I’d set my room ablaze, and I had no idea how to reverse it. I don’t want that to happen ever again. I don’t – if something happens around me, something about my magic, then I want to be able to _understand_ what’s going on.” A pause, her gaze boring into Merlin’s. “You’re the only one who can help.”

Merlin knows how much Morgana hates to beg favors, knows how proud she is. He isn’t trying to peek, but terror bleeds in subtle waves off the girl before him, her heartbeat like a drum in his ears. He bites his lip.

The possibility, however slim, that she may one day turn against them all. Morgana, right now, resolute and brave and ever so slightly broken, standing straight and tall.

Yet another line, Merlin thinks, that he must straddle.

“One condition. I tell Arthur.”

Morgana wavers, conflicted. Her lips press into a straight line. Her eyes meet his, resolute. “I trust him.”

“Good,” Merlin says, feeling his gaze soften. “Meet me in your chambers in a fortnight.”

▧▨▧

Arthur almost chokes on his bread. A shame – it’s one of chef’s delicacies, sweet honeyed ham on crisp, golden bread, topped off with some tangy sauce. “Morgana has magic?”

“Well. Yes,” Merlin says, and though Arthur can tell he’s trying to sound nonchalant, he is anything but. “I believe that was what I’d said.”

“I can understand why you’d said it wasn’t your secret to tell, now,” Arthur sighs. The grass is warm under his hands, the sky a perfect, clear blue, but his head is swimming with so many questions he doesn’t even know where to start. He has the feeling he ought to be a lot more surprised by this revelation than he is – but come to think of it, he thinks a part of him has always known. The uncanny way she had always seemed to know things before they happened, her terrible nightmares, her warning about the knight Valiant.

“Still – why now?”

“Because I thought you had to be aware,” Merlin says. His voice is quiet, but when he turns to Arthur, his gaze is heavy. “I won’t let you get into danger again, Arthur. I can’t.”

Arthur’s heart pangs in sympathy. Still, something clenches in his gut, roiling and uneasy. “Danger is part of my job, though, Merlin. You do understand that?”

Merlin turns, biting his lip. “I – might.” His voice is strained. “I don’t think I like it, much.”

Arthur truly appreciates Merlin’s regard for him, but sometimes, he is terrified by how far Merlin might be driven to go for him. It’s a heavy responsibility, almost too much so for a youth of less than twenty-five summers, and Arthur shifts in his seat. In the end, he settles for a whispered, “I suppose so.”

The autumn wind skitters over then, a few bits of stray grass winding up on Arthur’s clothes. It had started out a picnic – it had been one of Arthur’s few free moments, the council session scheduled for the afternoon cancelled for some reason or the other, and he had been determined to make the most of it. Merlin, of course, had acquiesced happily - ‘I don’t get to see you nearly as much as I’d like to, you know’ – and now here they were.

The serious turn it had taken, though, is totally unexpected. Arthur sighs. He doesn’t like that their first outing together has ended up this glum, and yet, he doesn’t know how to make it all carefree and happy again.

Morgana has magic.

Ignorance is bliss, they say.

“Does she know you’re telling me?”

“What do you take me for?” Merlin turns, affronted, and a passing field-mouse nips Arthur in his thigh. Arthur yelps. “Of course I asked. Arthur, it may be a surprise to you, but I do have a rudimentary sense of honor.”

“It’s not,” Arthur says, rubbing the bite. “Sorry. That came out totally wrong.”

“I know.” Merlin doesn’t say what he _knows_ , exactly, but Arthur gets the gist of it, and that is enough. He flops back against the soft, yellowing grass, and then all of a sudden laughter bubbles up inside him. Merlin looks at him strangely.

“You know,” Arthur manages to huff between laughs, “I don’t know, but the fact that we never manage to have a quiet moment together is hilarious. Look; even our picnic is overshadowed by my discovering Morgana’s magic.”

Merlin huffs. “And you find that funny?”

“And you don’t?”

“You’re hilarious,” Merlin says, fond, and scoots closer to run a soft hand down Arthur’s face. “Our outing isn’t over yet, though. We can still make it as sickeningly sweet as you want.”

“Oi!” Arthur wrestles himself up, indignant. “Where did I say I ever wanted sickeningly sweet?”

“Oh, you didn’t, but I don’t need to hear it to know,” Merlin replies, blue eyes dancing with mirth. “My dear romantic prince.”

“That’s it. I am not speaking to you for a fortnight.”

A pause.

“Arthur?”

“Yes – wait, that’s cheating!”

Merlin laughs, clear and high, and Arthur can’t help the fond smile that comes to his face. He looks so young and carefree, limned in gold by the sun, grass and sky a soft backdrop against his figure. Arthur will never get tired of the way Merlin comes alive in nature, almost as if he is one with them all, bright and vibrant and _right._ Sometimes, Merlin acts so human that Arthur has difficulties remembering who exactly stands before him, and yet in moments like these – he doesn’t doubt, not at all.

His god. His Merlin.

“Prat.” Arthur snorts, poking Merlin in the ribs. He shimmies away. “Oh, quit squirming; I know you don’t feel it that much anyway.”

“You wound me,” Merlin retorts, snuggling into Arthur’s side.

The basket of cook’s snacks lie to the side, forgotten, but Arthur doesn’t mind.

The moment is perfect enough as it is.

As always, Arthur should have known that some things are too perfect to be true. They are on their way back to Camelot when they run into trouble in the form of an enraged boar.

Arthur only manages to step back at the last moment, and the boar’s tusks graze his arm, leaving behind the faintest trail of blood.

“What-“ Arthur mutters, reaching for his sword, but Merlin is faster – he spins, eyes wide, and with a deafening crack, the beast is nowhere to be seen.

The boy is trembling slightly, so minute that you wouldn’t see it if you hadn’t been looking for it, and his eyes are wide, pupils mere dots in a churning sea of stormy blue. He takes a deep breath.

The sight of the god, who had once stood proud and tall against a horde of wyverns, who hadn’t flinched in the face of an afanc, brought low by a mere boar, is almost – disturbing.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks, daring to lay a soft hand on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin flinches, a little, then brings him into a crushing embrace. Arthur pats the boy’s trembling back, making soothing sounds under his breath.

“It’s alright, Merlin. It was only a boar. I had my sword with me; it wouldn’t have hurt me.”

“It almost did,” Merlin replies, voice hoarse, as he pulls back and runs a finger over the line of Arthur’s cheekbone. “ _It almost did._ ”

“But it didn’t.” Arthur shifts, wondering where the boar has ended up. He hopes it hasn’t been incinerated or anything – whatever the reason, it hadn’t deserved that. He doesn’t ask.

“I suppose so,” Merlin replies, then shakes his head, managing to pull himself together. “Well, it’s late – we should get going if we’re to get back before it’s dark.”

It’s an obvious change of topic, but Arthur goes along with it. Later, as they start the slow trek back to the castle, Arthur cannot bring himself to forget how Merlin had looked after the boar had been gone – pale, trembling, terrified.

Yet he is a god with the power to make the world bow at his feet.

The thought that fear for Arthur’s safety can bring him so low – yes, it has not been long since Nimueh has struck, and perhaps the wounds of that time reside still in Merlin’s heart. Still, Arthur cannot help the feeling of dread that curls up from his gut.

_What has he done to Merlin?_

▨

“You look troubled,” Gaius remarks as he wraps a bandage around Arthur’s arm. Arthur smiles, sheepish. “Is it that obvious?”

“One more sigh and you would have brought down the room about us by sheer force of it, sire,” is the physician’s reply. Arthur knows for a fact that he hasn’t sight that much, but still, the old physician has always been good at reading him like a book.

“I – might be.” Arthur stares down at his hands.

“And it is about Merlin?”

Arthur starts. “How did you know?”

“Well, there is this certain look that comes about when there’s trouble between lovers.” He ties off Arthur’s bandage, then steps back, looking over his handiwork with an appraising eye. “So, was I right?”

“Yes.” Arthur wonders if he ought to share his woes with Gaius – it’s between himself and Merlin, after all, and he hasn’t even broached the topic with the god yet – but makes up his mind quickly enough. It’s Gaius, not anyone else, and he has been as much of a father as Uther has ever been. “It’s just – Gaius, do you remember the high priest William?”

“Of course. What does that have – oh.”

“Yeah.” Arthur suddenly feels impossibly small for the problem set before him. “I – Gaius, I’m worried. I’m worried that I’d be another Will to him, except worse.”

“Maybe.” Gaius shrugs, settling into a rickety chair that has most definitely seen better days. “But do you regret having met him?”

‘No, of course not,’ is what Arthur wants to say, but his voice feels stuck in his windpipe, weak and fragile. Arthur rubs his eyes with the tips of his fingers, hard enough to see stars. “I don’t know.”

Gaius doesn’t try to placate him with sweet, empty words, and Arthur appreciates that. After a short while, the faint bubbling of Gaius’ many potions the only sound to break the silence, Gaius opens his mouth to speak again. “And yet you love him, do you not?”

“Yes.” Undeniably, irrevocably, ever since he’d called for Emrys in the dark of his room and he had answered. Ever since their lips had met, hot and cool at the same time, the scent of a gathering storm on the tip of his tongue. And yet Arthur feels as if he is being pulled in two opposite directions – he will not, cannot, be the one to bring about Camelot’s – or anywhere else’s - ruin. Especially if it is to be at the hand of a deity grieving for his lover.

Gaius sighs. “Oh, my boy. What burdens are placed on the shoulders of one so young. Still, Arthur – do you not know the old sayings? How did they go – ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’? I know I do not say this often, but I do care for you, very deeply. Merlin makes you happy. You make him happy. I do not say you are wrong to worry, and yet – don’t let this go, Arthur. Don’t.”

Arthur looks up. “Can’t you see, Gaius? I’m still human, all said and done. I can’t forget that.”

Gaius’s gaze is old, wise, compassionate. “So don’t.”

▧▨▧

“I did it!” Morgana whoops. She looks almost like a child, laughing gleeful and unrestrained, face glowing in the light of the candle she has just lit. “I did it! You said it wasn’t easy for beginners.”

Merlin presses down a pang of guilt. To be honest, he has no idea – he has been able to set whole forests ablaze with his mind from the moment of his birth, never mind candles, and he hasn’t exactly paid much attention to the development of human sorcerers either. And yet the girl is talented; he does understand that. Her magic is a bright, eager blaze, lapping up any scrap of knowledge it is granted. “Yes, you’ve done well.” He raises an eyebrow. “Now when someone annoys you, you can just set their underpants on fire, no?”

“Don’t encourage me. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

That much is true. That is why Merlin is still wary, though his guards lower every time he meets her – there is something so pure and sweet, innocent, about the girl whenever they meet for ‘magic lessons’ that it’s almost impossible to continue her vigilance.

“Perhaps.” Merlin leans back, stretching his body – he cannot feel tiredness the way humans can, but still, it’s been a long day, and the action is satisfying in and of itself. The satisfaction of a day well spent settles into his bones. “Well, that’s all I had for today.”

“You’re getting lazy,” Morgana teases. “You used to be a lot more prepared.”

Without a word, Merlin sends a small gust of cold air trickling towards her. Morgana has grown much; she manages to deflect it right back at Merlin, though it dissipates helplessly before it makes any sort of contact.

Morgana leans forward, curious. “It always does that.”

Merlin blinks an eye open. “What does?”

“Things,” Morgana gestures with her hand, as if to indicate the air about Merlin. “You know, the last time I almost set your tunic on fire by accident, it dissipated like that, too. How powerful _are_ you?”

Ah.

Merlin should have been more ready – that question was bound to pop up at some point or another. To speak the truth, most magic shies from hurting him – he is not simply a wilder of it, he is a baser version of it, the _source_ , if you will, and it would be like attempting to attack a stream with a bucket of water. But he cannot say that.

“What do you think?”

“Well, I don’t know, of course,” Morgana shrugs, though her eyes are shrewd, piercing. “You haven’t taught me how to see things like that, yet. Still – there’s something.” A pause. “You feel like a furnace, you know that? Like – I’m basking in the sun in summer, or something. Not physically-wise, but. It’s – difficult. To explain.”

Merlin winces. Of course, Morgana is one of the most powerful Seers he has seen in a while – she should have noticed something is off with him. Still, the secret of his true identity is not one he shares lightly, and so he simply laughs it off. “Oh, so you think I am – _hot?_ Is that what you said? Good to know, that.”

“Stop that,” Morgana groans, exasperated. “I swear Arthur is rubbing off of you.”

“Who, me?” Merlin asks, putting on the most exaggeratedly wide-eyed expression he can muster, and Morgana laughs.

Guilt settles, cold and heavy as lead, deep inside his stomach.

▨

“You are late today.”

Morgana smiles, apologetic. The woman before her – beautiful but stern, blue eyes like chips of ice in her dream-scape – fixes her with a level stare. “Dawdle, and we have that much less time to practice, yes?”

“I’m sorry. Merlin kept me a while longer today.”

“Ah, your _Merlin_.” The woman’s lips twist, as if she has heard something unspeakably distasteful. “That is just as well. I have something to show you today.”

“Show me?” Morgana doesn’t know much about her mysterious tutor – she had appeared in the midst of Morgana’s dreams, one day, had told Morgana nothing but her name: Morgause. She had offered her help in training, and she has been a great if demanding teacher – Morgana doesn’t think she would have been able to make so much progress under so little time, had it not been for Morgause. No, not even with Merlin’s nightly lessons.

And yet it is the first time that they are doing something unrelated to training.

“Yes.” Today they are in some sort of clearing, the soft fragrance of grass offset by a strange spice that drifts from the trees about them, sharp and rich like cinnamon. “Sit down. You may have need of it soon.”

Morgana sits. “I do not like dancing about the problem,” she says, because she will not tolerate being kept in the dark, no matter what. She has her thoughts and she will speak them – she refuses to be a mere simpering doll, like so many ladies of the court. Morgause gives her an appraising look. “Neither do I.”

Morgana nods, terse. She purses her lips. She has a strange apprehension, as if something is gathering in the air – as if she will never be the same, once she is done with whatever Morgause is planning. She trusts the woman, for she has been nothing but helpful until now – and yet she finds herself tensing, almost unconsciously.

“You said, once, that I remind you of someone you knew, Morgana says. “Is this about that?”

“Perhaps.” Morgause’s eyes are unreadable. “What I show you now is a history long forgotten, a tale that history books do not record. It is long, and bloody. It will shake everything you ever thought you knew.” Her eyes meet Morgana’s in a silent challenge. “Will you see?”

Morgana has never backed down from a challenge in her entire life. “You need not ask,” she says, chin held high.

Then the images begin.

Morgana sees a baby as he screams, flames lapping at him as his skin bubbles and blackens. She sees a woman slide to the ground in grief as her husband is taken away, then is dragged to the pyre herself. She sees the Uther as he commands the death of yet another sorcerer, expressionless and aloof, as the convicted man screams and cries and begs.

She sees the carnage wrought by the purge, family after family succumbing to hunger, neighbor turning against neighbor, the flash of a sword in the dark. Bile rises unbidden to her throat, and Morgana bites it back, but there is an acrid taste at the back of her mouth.

Then the visions bleed away to a dark forest, and she sees Morgause, and –

“Merlin?”

“Shhhh,” Morgause’s disembodied voice hushes, and Morgana feels Morgause’s finger against her forehead, cold yet blazing hot. “Watch.”

Morgana does.

Merlin – the boy doesn’t look a year younger than when she had seen him yesterday, and yet Morgana knows, instinctively, that this vision is from a while back. He stands tall and straight, but he seems hunched, somehow, sorrow lining his face. Faint golden light dances about him like sparks around a fire, and the power that radiates from him is almost tangible.

“-must stop,” Morgause is saying, haggard and run-down, dark circles underlining her eyes. “You must stop him, Emrys. Strike him down.”

“I cannot,” Merlin – _Emrys_ – says. Morgause grits her teeth.

“Your people are dying in droves,” she says, voice hoarse. “And yet yu will not help.”

“It is not our place to interfere,” the god replies, face unreadable. Morgause says something more, and –

Merlin shakes his head.

Then Morgause takes her hand off of Morgana’s face, and she slumps to the ground, cold, frozen, a thousand thoughts churning through her head.

“You have seen,” Morgause states, calm, once Morgana regains her bearings. Morgana nods, numb – then catches herself, and scrambles away, almost on all fours, breathing hard. “I – _who are you?_ ”

Morgause does not move. “I am Morgause the Avenger,” she says, “she who rights wrongs.”

Her mortal shell falls from her like a shed cloak, and Morgana sees the red-black power of the goddess, the color of spilt blood, and though it is naught compared to what she had seen in the vision, it is impressive nonetheless. Morgana swallows. “You tried to help them,” she whispers. “You tried to help the sorcerers.”

“Yet I was weak, and I failed.” The goddess’ face hardens. “ _Emrys_ walked away.”

Emrys.

Merlin. Emrys. Morgana’s blood rushes audible in her ears, and there is a cold, clammy feeling in her hands – she had thought he was her friend.

But he lied to her; made her believe he was naught but a simple sorcerer-boy.

He walked away when his people needed him most.

He brought the winter-curse upon Camelot, later, for nothing more than a grudge.

Morgana doesn’t know what to think anymore. Her temper, perhaps the only thing she has learned from Uther, clamors deep inside her, she wants to scream, she wants to grab him by the scruff of his neck and shake him until he gives her answers she can abide by.

Morgause watches her, eyes reserved, calculating. The murky blue of them is almost captivating, and Morgana blinks.

“Help me,” the goddess says, and the word hangs heavy between them. “And there may yet be justice.”

The pyre. Children burning. Mothers grieving.

Merlin – Emrys, shaking his head – _It is not our place to interfere._

She is not sure if she could turn against Merlin, against Arthur, so completely; if she would stand against them should the situation demand it of her. And yet……

Morgana makes her choice.

“What must I do?”

▧▨▧

Merlin’s hand tightens on his shoulder, and Arthur is jolted out of his sleep. “What is it?”

It had been a peaceful evening, Merlin leaning over the speech Arthur had been working on and teasing him from time to time, and it hadn’t taken long for Arthur to doze off, the past few day’s lack of sleep catching up with him. But there is something about Merlin’s touch that sparks Arthur’s instincts, leaving him wide-awake and reaching for the dagger in his boot.

Merlin’s eyes are faraway, fixed somewhere Arthur cannot see. “I felt something,” he says, lips thin, eyebrows drawn close together. It is how Merlin looks when he is frustrated, and Arthur knows that when something is capable of frustrating a nigh all-powerful god, it is bound to be nothing good. “But – it is cloaked from me. I could-“

Arthur bites his lip. His insides are in turmoil. He remembers what Lancelot had said – _an army of sorcerers_ – and his hand tightens on his quill, almost snapping it in half. “Does it feel bad? Malignant?”

“I don’t know. But what’s been touched is ancient magic, Arthur. I cannot pinpoint what it is, but if I got close enough-“

“No.” Arthur wants nothing more than to send Merlin off right away, bid him bring back whatever information he finds, but he hasn’t been made commander by virtue of making rash choices. He isn’t about to send Merlin off, god or no, on some wild harebrained chase on grounds of a ‘disturbance’.

“We’ll wait a week,” he says, coming to a decision. “Then we will see.”

Merlin nods, but his eyes, grey clashing into blue, are as stormy as his mood.

The next day, Arthur notices a suspicious golden glimmer settling about Camelot’s walls, subtle, only there if one had been looking for it. When he presses his palms against them, they thrum with a faint, resonating power, golden-warm and reassuring.

He catches Merlin’s eye; the god nods back.

He doesn’t call him out on it.

It turns out they do not have to wait long after all.

“Knights,” the messenger gasps, every breath rattling in his chest like wind thorough tree branches. His eyes are blown wide, sweat pooling about his brow and the hollow of his cheekbones, and he reeks of fear, half-crazed and ready to run. “Knights that cannot be killed. Sire, I – we drove a pike through its heart-“

Arthur bites his lip. “I believe you,” he says. He understands how it feels, to realize that the world is far larger than you had ever imagined, that you might be naught more than an ant in the face of some forces. He lets his hand rest on the soldier’s bloodstained mail. “You have done well. Go and get some rest.”

The messenger scrambles out of the room so fast he nearly trips himself. No sooner is he gone than Merlin lets out a string of curses in a tongue Arthur doesn’t recognize. The air shimmers about him, a clue that he is fast losing control, and sparks dance about his fingertips. Arthur lays a hand on his wrist. “What is it?”

“The fires of Idirsholas.”

“Idirsholas?”

“Old magic.” Merlin’s reply is curt. “Only a deity could – I should have realized.” He curses, again, under his breath. “I should have.”

What with all that has been done to the old religion, Arthur supposes, it isn’t too strange that there is some deity out for their blood. “I still don’t understand exactly what is happening, though.” He nudges Merlin, as soft as he dares. “I can’t prepare myself against something I don’t understand.”

Merlin’s smile, though terse, is apologetic. He seats himself on top of Arthur’s table, scattering a few stray pieces of paper in the process. “If one is powerful enough, you can summon seven undead knights at a place called Idirsholas,” he says. He waves his hand, and an image forms in the air – black knights shrouded in darkness, grim and forbidding and reeking of death. “Even we do not know exactly how they came to be about – and yet they are, and once they are called forth, there is no way to kill them.”

Arthur grimaces. “Even you?”

It is difficult to imagine that there is something even Merlin cannot stop, not after Arthur had seen what he could do. Merlin nods. “It isn’t a problem of an amount of power. I could stop them, yes, detain them. And yet, one lapse in vigilance – and they would be on their merry way again. The only way to kill them is to quench the flames at Idirsholas from whence they come.”

“And yet they grow closer by the hour.”

A strange resignation settles in Arthur’s gut. “So you know where you must go to stop them?”

“Yes. But-“

“Then go.”

The thought of sending Merlin off to heaven-knows-where, with the possibility of running into some other deity who might incidentally have enough power to actually hurt the god, is terrifying. The idea of being left behind in Camelot, the possibility of the knights storming in always just over the horizon, is even more so.

But Arthur is a prince, and duty is an old friend to him – he knows what must be done.

“But Arthur.” Merlin’s eyes hold a shadow of that same fear Arthur had seen on the day they had run into the boar. Irrational, desperate fear, that leveled a great god to the same level as man. “You will be – left. Here.”

Arthur braces himself, tries to drive the last vestiges of fear off his face. “I can take care of myself. You told me you couldn’t bring me with you, didn’t you? Last time, with Cerdan and Mordred – that you couldn’t bring others with you when you sent yourself over great distances, that you had no knowing where they would end up.”

“We could fly,” Merlin says, eyes hopeful. “I could call in a favor.”

“And it wouldn’t be fast enough.” Arthur grips Merlin, as hard as he dares, fear and love and duty pulling him in so many different directions he fears he will tear. “Go, Merlin. Camelot depends on you.”

“And I on you.” Merlin’s gaze lingers on Arthur’s. The god reaches forward, tracing a finger over Arthur’s features. His power, heady and intoxicating, warm and tingling-soft, settles into him, cocooning him like a second layer of skin. _Protection_ , Arthur supposes. He will allow his lover that much. “Stay safe. Please.”

“I will.” Arthur puts on a brave smile for him. “Now hurry along.”

A whisper of wind; and Merlin is gone.

▨

Morgana had thought something dramatic would happen once she accepted Morgause’s offer, but things are surprisingly quiet. Life in Camelot goes on as usual, servants bustling about the corridors, knights clashing swords out on the training fields. Uther remains as healthy as ever. Morgana feels guilty, for a while, because Uther had been the one to take her in when her father had passed away, to lavish her with gifts and love even when she had not asked for it – but then she remembers the pyres, the deaths, and hardens her mind.

Then everyone starts to fall asleep.

It is almost comical, the way they drop like flies, snoring softly as they collapse to the floor. Morgana blinks, wondering if her eyes have deceived her, and runs to one of the castle’s many windows. The scene that greets her seems surreal for the sheer scope of it.

All across the castle, servants and nobles alike lie asleep on the ground. More than Morgana can count with all her fingers, they cover the ground like bizarre blankets, almost like something out of a twisted fairy-tale.

_Morgause._

But she had said she was only going to ‘right the wrongs’, Morgana thinks. She had never even spoken of something this brutal, something this wide-reaching.

She had not told Morgana about how she planned to sacrifice the whole of Camelot for her revenge.

Morgana presses a hand to her mouth, her stomach protesting violently. She feels faint, as if someone is tugging at her mind from afar; she fears that she will be sick on the cobblestones the minute she removes her hand. A familiar, calloused hand comes to rest on her shoulder.

“Arthur,” she manages, though her voice is trembling beyond her control. “Arthur-“

“Morgana, I’m so glad to see you safe.” Arthur pulls her into an embrace, warm and steady, before pulling back to peer at her. “Everyone was falling asleep, and I thought-“

Arthur is miraculously, impossibly awake, and Morgana only understands when she sees the faint displacement of air about him, like a golden sheet of mail. Emrys must have done something for him.

“You thought?”

“You might be alright,” Arthur replies. “Morgana, I _know_.”

There is something about the way Arthur says those words, and Morgana doesn’t have to ask the prince for clarification. Images of crackling fire rise to her mind, unbidden, screams of the dying ringing in her ears. She flinches, bringing a trembling hand up to chest-level. “I won’t go down without a fight,” she warns.

Arthur blinks, as if confused, then draws back, hurt dancing in his eyes.

“Morgana. I _wouldn’t._ ”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Morgana says, and she can’t help the bitterness that rises unbidden to your voice. “Frolicking about with Emrys and all.”

“Wait, how did you–“ Arthur’s eyes narrow, and his lip thins into a narrow line. “But now isn’t the time to talk about that. Everyone is falling asleep. Merlin says there’s an immortal group of knights riding hard for us. We have to find a way to hold them off long enough for Merlin to finish his job.”

“Immortal knights?”

“Apparently they are only summon-able by gods.” Arthur shrugs, a resigned snort making its way out of his nose. “My father has many enemies, it seems.”

_Knights that only gods can summon._

Morgana feels the revelation as a sick wrench to her gut. Avenger, her eye. Morgause would burn the entirety of Camelot for her revenge.

Morgana feels used, tainted, violated, and she wants nothing more than to grab the goddess by her locks of hair and spin her around until her anger is spent. Her temper, long banked, rises within her like some terrible, hungering beast, and she clenches her fists so hard she almost bleeds. “I think I may know who is behind this all.”

The look Arthur gives is shrewd, but he doesn’t ask. “You know what we can do?”

“I think so.” Morgana must have become the focus for some sort of spell – the sleeping curse, she suspects. If she is gone, then, by all logic, the spell must fall. She remembers reading once that a human can survive even their heart stopping, if appropriate measures are implemented immediately.

“Will your god come if you shout for him?”

“Yes. But why-“

“Gaius’ chambers.” Morgana turns on her heels, setting off towards the physician’s room at a brisk pace. She cannot afford to think, because then – she fears that she will balk at death, that she will not have the courage to do what need be done. “Now.”

The physician’s shelves are a jumble of jar after jar, green and purple and disgusting shades of brown and puce and everything in between. Morgana looks, until she finds a familiar vial, hidden halfway behind a much larger jar full of a viscous green mix. Arthur’s jaw hardens.

“That’s where Gaius leaves all the poisons.”

“It’s alright. I know what I’m doing.”

Hemlock. It would stop her heart long enough for the curse to lift, perhaps.

It would feel like drinking liquid flames. But Morgana has never been one to flinch from pain.

“Morgana-“

Arthur rushes forward, panic in his eyes. Ah, so he’s realized what she’s planning, no? That boy; always had been too shrewd for his own good.

Morgana smiles, then downs the poison in one gulp.

The last thing she sees, inexplicably, is Morgause’ face, twisted in an impossible fit of rage – and Arthur, blue eyes open and honest and afraid, rushing towards her.

“Merlin!” Arthur screams, voice breaking off in the end, and then –

Darkness.

▧

“Morgana!” Arthur cries, rushing forward to gather her into his arms. Already she is unconscious, breaths heavy and labored against him, and Arthur knows that the poison has taken effect. He bites his lip, hoping against hope Merlin is fast enough. Questions are spinning through his head faster than he can answer them – how does Morgana know about Merlin? What had she known about this curse? – and yet he knows, without doubt, that if he loses Morgana today, he will never forget.

“Well,” a voice speaks from behind him, cool and feminine. “Heartwarming, I suppose. I had not imagined the girl would dare betray me.”

Arthur spins around. The woman is tall and lithe, clad in a tattered white robe that has most probably seen better days, a tarnished clasp of gold about her waist. Her face is set in stern, unfeeling lines, anger twisting her lip, eyes terrifying for the utter force of the hate within them.

The shadows seem to dance and curl about her feet, like obedient puppies, and Arthur knows – this is a goddess.

And yet, her strength is nowhere near as all-encompassing Merlin’s, and Arthur grits his teeth. He can survive this. He will.

Morgana’s life depends upon it.

“That,” Arthur spits, “Is because she is much better than you could ever hope to be.”

“Beware, mortal,” the goddess warns. “I would strike you down for a lesser insult.”

“Oh?” Arthur swallows, heart racing a thousand miles a minute. “And what may that be?”

“I may simply deign to show you, _Pendragon_ ,” the goddess hisses, raising a hand. Arthur forces his eyes open, unwilling to show weakness before an enemy. He will go down fighting if he must.

Then a blinding, searing light, impossibly bright and golden-white, and Arthur nearly cries for relief.

Merlin has come.

“ _Morgause._ ” Merlin hisses, and the walls of Gaius’ chambers shudder as if in a storm, responding to his anger. “You dare.”

“Who are you to lecture me about worthiness, _Emrys?_ You, who walked away when your people clamored for you.”

Merlin bites his lip, the ferocity of the light about him faltering. Arthur wants to step closer, to run a hand down the boy’s back and tell him that it is alright, that he’s done his best, and yet – this is a clash between titans, and Arthur does not want to be yet another commodity to Merlin.

“Perhaps,” Merlin says, voice soft. “But you threaten those dear to me.” Arthur can tell that the god is holding back, bubbling, burning power kept under a tight leash beneath his skin, not daring to let even the tiniest bit go. “You are weak, Morgause. The purge has drained you. Go back from whence you came, and I will plague you no longer.”

“And if I do not?” The goddess is near trembling with rage, blue eyes blazing with anger unfathomable. “And if I will not? Will you strike me down, like that mortal sorceress Nimueh? Will you resort to killing your own kind?”

Merlin flinches, but when he raises his eyes to meet Morgause’s, the set of his shoulders are resolute.

“I will do what I must.”

Arthur holds his breath, waiting. The air in the room is thick with the gods’ power, almost difficult to breathe. Morgana gives a twitch, than another, convulsing in irregular spasms in his arms. Arthur tightens his grip. Morgana spins around, skirt swirling threateningly behind her. “Do not forget, Emrys,” she warns. “The Winter Solstice is nigh.”

Merlin’s eyes widen, and he raises an arm as if to cast a spell, hold the goddess where she is, but with a swirl of shadow, she is gone.

Blood begins to dribble from the edge of Morgana’s mouth.

▨

“Will she be alright?” Arthur asks, anxious. Merlin’s hand, glowing such a bright gold that Arthur suspects he will see the bones inside if he only looks closely enough, makes another pass over Morgana’s throat. Merlin’s eyes meet Arthur’s, blue tinged with grey sparking with stray pieces of gold. “Yes.”

Arthur lets out a sigh he hadn’t even been aware he had been holding. “That,” he says, “is the best news I’ve heard in a long, long time.”

“And it may remain so for a longer while still.” Merlin rocks back on his heels, admiring his handiwork. Morgana’s cheeks are a healthy shade of rose, lips as red as ever. Arthur thinks she will be fine, once she manages to open her eyes. “That’s worrisome.”

So much he’s been through already; the world could give him a break once in a while. He could most certainly use one. He rubs at his eyes, careless of the fact that the rough fabric of his tunic is chafing the skin there. It stings, but it takes his mind of immediate matters, so it is good. “Does it have something to do about Morgause talking about the Winter Solstice?”

“Yes.” Merlin tilts his head, considering, then nods. “It would do well for you to know, too. Morgause is a deity, very much like me – you did infer that much?”

“Once she got all sinister and calling me ‘ _mortal_ ’, yes, I think so.”

Merlin smiles, though it’s a wan, strained thing. “That she is, but she is also different. Some gods, like me, draw their power directly from the world. Worship does not matter to us.”

“And others?”

“Others,” Merlin says, “stand for things related to human beliefs, or emotions. Lust. Love. Revenge. Justice. Those gods, most of them died out in the purge – or were weakened so far that they could pass for mortal sorcerers. Not many dared continue worship of their gods under the iron fist of the purge.”

Ah. “And Morgause is one of them.”

“Yes.” Merlin sighs. “Unfortunately. And she is called the avenger – apt, truly. She rarely forgets a grudge.”

“So it seems.” Arthur sighs, fidgeting with the edge of Morgana’s bed-cloth. “And still, I feel like I cannot simply hate her – my father wronged her first, didn’t he? She would still be living happily on with a group of followers if my father hadn’t begun all this madness.”

Merlin’s hand covers his, warm and heavy. “And yet,” he says, “if we were to be all held up on what could have been, then the world would be full of lunatics.”

Arthur snorts. “A terrifying thought.”

“Among others.”

Morgana stirs, and Arthur holds his breath, until she sinks back into her restless slumber. “So – the winter solstice?”

Merlin tenses, the gold intensifying about his eyes. His hand feels like points of lightning prickling across his skin. Arthur flinches. Merlin’s eyes meet his, apologetic. “There is a ritual.”

“A ritual?”

“Solstice, as you may know, is a time when the energies of the world are strongest. Most turbulent. There is a ritual that lets the presider draw that out, incorporate it into their being. For most mortal sorcerers, it would be a gamble for their life – so much power would burn them out.”

“And yet, for Morgause, it could be the chance for a giant power-up.” It’s a terrifying thought, but Arthur is numb all over, the stress of the day finally catching up with him, and he settles for a shrug. “Why now, though? After all these years?”

“Well, we cannot know for sure. Perhaps she had simply been too weak until now. Perhaps only now she feels safe.”

“Perhaps.”

“She musn’t be allowed to do that, Arthur.” Merlin’s eyes are wide, terrified, and Arthur can feel the quick butterfly flutter of the boy’s pulse against his. “She – if she comes back into her full powers, even I am not sure of how I will fare. She is a warrior, _made_ for combat. If she-“

_How does Merlin feel?_ Arthur wonders. How does an immortal deity feel, when possibly the only one able to match him for power out for his lover’s head? Like falling down into a hole without an end, Arthur supposes. Like rushing headstrong into a crushing wave.

“No,” Arthur says. “We will be fine. I believe that. You have to, too.”

Merlin smiles at him through watery eyes.

When Arthur drifts asleep, he dreams of gods and goddess with fiery eyes, and comets raining down from the skies like judgement.

▧▨▧

When Morgana wakes, Arthur is beside her. Morgana pauses, unsure if she should wake him up or not. Morgana is never unsure, but today is an exception – there is so much they have to talk about, so many questions she wants to ask, and she has no idea where to start.

Or if they will even ever start at all.

Arthur almost looks angelic in this light, slanted sunlight lighting up his cheekbones and highlighting his long lashes in gold, like a baby cherub fallen from the heavens just for her. A wave of fondness rises up in Morgana’s heart – Arthur has always been more of a little brother to her than anything else, really, and she isn’t sure if she’ll be strong enough to laugh it off if they don’t manage to suss things out.

Arthur stirs. Morgana draws back as if burned.

Arthur’s eyes open a crack, then blow wide open. “You’re awake!”

“That I am,” she agrees. She shrugs. “Your god has done a good job.”

“Merlin.” A brief shadow flits across his face. “You’re going to tell me about how you got to know about _that,_ because honestly, I have no idea.”

Morgana bites her lip, refusing to be the first one to turn away. “And you had no intention whatsoever of telling me?”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.” Arthur’s eyes are pained. “I feel like we’ve had too many of those. Secrets, I mean.”

“Yes. I get what you mean.”

Arthur sighs. “Why can’t anything ever be easy?”

“Because that’s the way it is.” She steels herself, forces herself to pull her shoulders back, hold her head high. “So. Ask.

Arthur is not shy, she will give him that. One day, she thinks, he will be a formidable king. One Arthur hears about Merlin and his magic lessons, Morgause, the sleeping-curse, the poisoning, he hums. “Well, that’s a lot to take in.”

“And that’s all you have to say?”

“As of now, yes.” Arthur shrugs. “Well, at least now I know about what Merlin meant when he told me it wasn’t his secret to tell.”

_He calls him Merlin_ , Morgana notices, _not Emrys_. Somehow that simple fact feels a lot more important than it ought to be. Morgana fingers the fine weave of her bed-cloth with her thumb. “Not his secret?”

“When you warned me about Valiant.”

Of course. Morgana remembers the dreams, the terror; of course her Sight could not have been a secret from a deity.

“You’re not angry with me?”

“For not telling me, or for going along with Morgause?”

“ _I didn’t go along with her._ ”

“I know. So why do you ask?”

Arthur’s eyes are open, sincere, and Morgana suddenly, inexplicably wants to cry. Of course it would be so simple for him. Everything was. She had envied it, one, the way everything seemed so clear-cut and unambiguous to him, almost as if there was a path blazed right where he needed to go.

Morgana laughs, and if it sounds watery, Arthur doesn’t call her out on it.

▨

He lurks in the shadows for a while until Morgana calls him out.

“I may be no goddess,” she says, “but I’m not blind. I’m not sure if I ought to be offended or not.”

“Not.” The god smiles, sheepish, and the expression is incongruous upon his face – how do you reconcile a cowering lion? A trembling eagle? “I’m sorry; I’ve been told I can be a bit creepy, at times.”

“Arthur?” Morgana raises a brow.

“Correct.”

Merlin sits himself down in front of Morgana’s bed, a stool dragging itself over from a far corner of the room, and they sit in silence for a while. It hangs thick and dry between them, nigh oppressive, and Morgana can’t hold it for much longer.

“So, Morgause wants to get back to full power so she can destroy Camelot.”

“Yes.”

“And she may or may not have an army of sorcerers.”

“Yes.”

“You will fight against her?”

“Always.”

Morgana clenches her fist. “You never thought to trust me with your identity.”

A pause, and then Merlin’s voice, almost painful:

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Morgana bites down the heat that races up her throat. She had trusted Morgause, and she had turned out to be the worst of them all. She had thought she could grow to like Merlin, the sorcerer boy with the quick smile, and yet – it turns out she had harbored a god in disguise.

A whole bloody _castle_ built up on lies.

It’s not much, really, it’s not as if Merlin is secretly the killer of her father or anything, or that Arthur is a murderous convict in disguise, it’s just that so much has happened, so fast – and Morgana has no idea which is up or down anymore.

“Morgana, you must understand – I never meant to hurt you. Not on purpose. Never that.”

“But you don’t trust me.”

“Didn’t.” Merlin bites his lip. The air about him hangs heavy and charged; Morgana has no doubt that one stray move against Arthur and it will be her life on a platter. Well, no matter – she wants Arthur safe, to, and at the end of the day, if it’s an overprotective god that’s all it takes, then she is willing to pay the price.

“Fine. I won’t try to change your thoughts.” _I thought we were friends,_ dies unspoken in her throat. Merlin looks pained, more so than she’s ever seen him. “God’s aren’t perfect, Morgana. You must know that by now.”

She laughs. “That must be the single most aborted apology I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“A first time for everything, yeah?” Merlin smiles, tentative and soft. “So – start again?”

“Start again?”

“Yes.” There’s the faintest glimmer of mirth in Merlin’s eyes, if you’re looking for it. He sticks his hand out as if for a handshake. “Hello, my name is Merlin. Nice to meet you. They say you are called Morgana?”

Morgana snorts. It doesn’t change anything about the situation they’re in, really, but the fact that an all-powerful god is actually making an effort to make amends with her, that he _cares_ that much, makes something tentative bloom somewhere deep inside her.

Morgana isn’t a forgiving person. She knows that, and it’s not as if everything is just fine, but.

It’s a step.

▨

Then a serving-girl finds strange runes scratched underneath Morgana’s bed, and Camelot is turned upside down.

“Had you known?” Arthur asks, when he meets Morgana in a corridor near her room. She’s more pallid than he’s ever seen her, worse even than when she’d been suffering from her nightmares. When she grips at Arthur, Arthur feels the clammy sweat on her hands. Morgana shakes her head.

“No,” she hisses. “Morgause, that _witch_ – now I know how she’d been able to sneak into my dreams. Arthur, what should I – Uther-“

Arthur loves and respects his father in his own way, if not the conventional bond between father and son, but he isn’t naïve enough to think him a man of no faults. Uther can be cruel and hot-tempered, and his hate of magic verges on the manic. An image of a burning pyre, screams of pain, a charred hand, flashes across Arthur’s mind, and he bites his lip. Morgana is trembling: a tremor barely there, but still present.

Arthur wraps his arms around Morgana. She feels spindly somehow, her larger-than-life presence diminished, but she still holds herself stiff upright, back straight and defiant.

“I won’t take it lying down,” she whispers against his shoulder. “I’ll fight him if I have to. Arthur, I won’t let him kill me.”

“And I won’t either.”

Guards scour Morgana’s chambers, leaving no corner unsearched, no cover unturned. There isn’t anything else that screams of sorcery, thank the gods, but the runs lie scratched over the cold stone of the castle, stark and ominous against the overturned bed.

Family dinners are suspended, and tension runs, thick and almost palpable through the air. Uther seems hung in a state between terrible betrayal and utter denial, drifting through the day in a half-daze, unspeaking, eyes far away.

And then he visits Morgana’s chambers himself.

Morgana has been a prisoner in her own chambers these few days, and it’s inevitable that the two meet. The heavy, iron-reinforced doors swing shut behind Uther with an ominous clang, and then – silence.

Uther stumbles out of her chambers much later, numb in shock, much like a man who has seen his own death. He does not eat, does not speak, barely shifts from his own bed. A ghost of his former self.

Arthur becomes King-Regent in all but name. His days are filled with endless council meetings and training sessions, now, and he’s almost thankful for it, in a way; he doesn’t think he could bear the weight of his thoughts if he’d gotten enough time to his own. When the clamor of his own thoughts grow too loud, Merlin comes to him and holds him close, and talks to him until he falls asleep.

“What did you tell him?” Arthur asks Morgana, later, sitting on a chair beside her bed. Morgana’s eyes meet his, painfully green.

“The truth,” she says.

▧▨▧

Winter dawns crisp and white. The winds are strong this year, tearing at the noble’s dresses and whipping Arthur’s cloaks and capes up into a frenzy, cutting at uncovered skin like a thousand pricking knives. If it snows, Arthur thinks, that’s a snowstorm in a making.

“Can’t you, you know, do something?” Arthur grumbles one day, shivering as he takes his cloak off and hangs it off the back of a chair to air. “You know, lessen the winds, make Camelot more habitable, something?”

Merlin bites his lip, lowering his gaze. “I could,” he offers, “but I’d rather not.”

Merlin’s winter-curse lies between them still, healing but still heavy, and Arthur berates himself. _Now, why did I bring that up again?_ Perhaps it means he’s become comfortable enough with the god that he feels natural discussing his powers with him. A good thing, he supposes. There are too many things to feel sad about if he begins to look – so, all things said, he would rather not. He shrugs. “Ah, probably a good idea. You’d better save up your strength. You know, Morgause and all.”

Merlin groans, burying his face in his knees. Though Merlin hasn’t told him much, Arthur knows that the god has been busy searching for any signs of Morgause’s forces, her intentions. The goddess seems to have hidden well. Merlin looks up, eyes tortured. “There might be a way.”

“A way?”

“Theoretically speaking.” Merlin fidgets, a miniature dragon forming above his fingers and doing a loop-a-loop through the chill air. His breath puffs out of him in a white gust. “I could look into their – thoughts. They are my people, after all. I do not think Morgause could defend all of them so thoroughly.”

It’s a chilling thought. Every time Arthur is reminded of who exactly sits across him, a jolt runs through his spine – Merlin could decide to read his thoughts one day, decide to leaf through his very being like a book, tear him apart limb from limb, and there would be nothing he could do about it. Merlin must have felt it, too – he leans imperceptibly back, lengthening the distance between Arthur and himself. Arthur scoots forward. “No, Merlin. I won’t ask that of you. I don’t want you to give up your humanity for Camelot.”

Merlin snorts. “Do I even have any?”

It’s a bitter laugh, brittle, and Arthur takes Merlin’s hand in his. It’s warm, slender and flawless, knobby knuckles pushing against Arthur’s palm. It’s more human, Arthur thinks, than anything he’s ever seen.

“You grumble about the quartermaster every other day. And have you stricken him down?”

“No.”

“I’m sure there are a thousand and more sinners in this city alone. Do you search them out, seek them and destroy them?”

Merlin pauses. “Arthur-“

“No, you don’t. And you don’t have to, nor do I think you should.” Arthur lifts his eyes, meets Merlin’s tortured stormy blue with his own. “You almost cried back when Gwen cried at your birthday present. Don’t lose that.”

Merlin looks down at his fingers. His voice is soft, almost trembling, when he replies. “And I don’t want to.”

They sit side by side, looking out of the window before them, nobles striding idly by, knights in their gleaming armor, maids gathered in groups and chatting about every-day things. The window is half frosted over, giving an ethereal quality to the scene, and Merlin flicks a finger, drawing the Pendragon crest with swift, fine strokes upon the thin ice. Merlin’s elbow bumps against his.

“It’s war, Arthur.”

Arthur sighs. “I understand.” Every day of his life feels like a battlefield, some days. Uther would call it the burden of a prince.

“I’ll always remember what you said.” Merlin’s fingers brush against his, the barest hint of heat passing between them. “But for you, Arthur – if you are in danger-“

Merlin’s eyes are pained, a deep furrow between his brows. Arthur wants to reach out, smooth it away, but he can’t. He is frozen to his spot, unable to move. He loves Merlin so much. So, so much. So much he fears he may spontaneously combust, sometimes.

But the weight of what Merlin offers him is a terrifying one, and Arthur-

For the first time in his life, Arthur doesn’t know what to do.

▨

Two months or less until the solstice. Merlin checks the wards he has erected around Camelot, then checks them again. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if the wards managed to deflect a full-on invasion by all the neighboring kingdoms – but Morgause, again, though much weakened, is no human sorcerer. Nerves, heavy and unpleasant, settle deep in Merlin’s gut.

After that, there is nothing to do but wait.

Then, against all expectations, Cerdan and Mordred return to Camelot.

Cerdan and Mordred’s faces are grim, their travelling cloaks stained with dirt and bits of grass, something worn and tired about their edges. They gather at Gaius’s chambers once they have eaten and washed. They have a man with them, one Merlin has never seen before, bound up in thick rope and a rune-engraved bracelet that Merlin senses works to stifle magic. He stiffens.

“This is not a friend of yours.”

“No.”

Merlin bites his lip. He won’t ever feel comfortable with one of his own people in chains before him, but Cerdan’s gaze is blunt, challenging. The druid isn’t one for needless violence, Merlin knows.

_This is war,_ he tells himself. He can’t afford to forget that.

“I’ll go get Arthur,” Merlin says, instead of countless other things he could have. Cerdan shakes his head. “This might be something he would not be comfortable with.”

Merlin narrows his eyes. He understands Cerdan’s mistrust, because years upon years of oppression under the Pendragon rule can’t be easy to put behind, but he won’t leave Arthur out of the loop yet again. Not when he has promised.

“Anything that can be said in front of me can be said in front of him too.”

Cerdan lowers his head in reverence. “I understand that, my lord. But what we must ask – I am afraid he might not approve.”

_What is it that they must ask of him that Arthur might not approve of?_

A frission of nerves runs down Merlin’s spine, pooling cold and heavy in Merlin’s gut. Gaius shifts in his seat.

“And what is that?”

“To enter this man’s mind, milord, and to glean his plans.”

Merlin’s power flares unbidden to the surface, golden-bright and blinding, as the tight grip he maintains upon it loosens in shock. He has done terrible things before, and he fears he might yet again. But there are some lines, some boundaries he has yet to cross, and this –

The violation of one’s very being.

No.

He cannot believe that these druids are asking that of him, when he had trusted them so fully. He had thought them to be good men. Had he been wrong? No wonder they had told him Arthur wouldn’t condone this, because Merlin knows Arthur well, and he would rather jump off a cliff than be accused of gaining an advantage through cruel, dirty means.

“Tell me that I have heard you wrong,” Merlin says, voice dangerously soft, and he can feel the sparks gathering at his fingertips, the golden light that jumps across his skin. “Tell me.”

Cerdan and Mordred flinch at the sudden onslaught of power, and Gaius’s hands tighten upon the leather chair he had been sitting upon. Merlin brings his power back under a tight leash again. “Well?”

Cerdan is silent for a while, and when he raises his chin, his gaze bores straight and determined into Merlin’s. “It may be the only chance we have to glean Morgause’s exact plans, my lord. Mordred and I almost risked our lives to capture him. We will always be happy to serve your will, milord, and we do not regret, but we beg you this one time. Uther has been a nightmare for us all, but we remember tales of Morgause well enough. Her rule is not one we wish to trade for Uther’s.”

Merlin doesn’t know how to reply, so he doesn’t. He turns his gaze to the stranger, instead. His magic is dark and dank, and Merlin almost flinches back from the sheer foulness of it; a strange, alien concoction designed to hurt, to kill, to maim. Bitterness and a thirst for revenge leeches out of him like ink in water, and his dark, swarthy countenance is twisted up in a grimace of hate. He snarls at Merlin, though he does not speak.

Morgause.

He does not know anything about her plans save for conjecture. He knows that they probably have until the Solstice for all this to blow over. He is immortal, nigh-unkillable, even for a fellow god, but he isn’t the only one whose safety is at stake here – it is Arthur’s, Guinevere’s, Lancelot’s, Morgana’s. It is a castle full of people who go about their everyday business even know, blissfully unaware, who will be trampled ruthlessly under Morgause’s bitter rage.

Merlin has been known to hold grudges, to lash out of his temper. But Morgause is different. She is cold, calculating, harsh. A blade forged to kill.

_“You almost cried back when Gwen cried at your birthday present. Don’t lose that.”_

Arthur’s eyes, clear and sincere, honest, burning into him like twin brands.

_Morgause._

The man’s eyes are black and oily, like twin pebbles made of coal. Merlin’s fists tighten.

_It may be the only chance we have to glean Morgause’s exact plans -_

_Mordred and I almost risked our lives to capture him._

A crossroads, Merlin thinks. A line, one that he has been toeing dangerously close for quite a long while now. Merlin knows what choice he will make before he even does.

He closes his eyes.

▨

Fear.

Terror.

Humiliation.

The feeling of one’s very essence being peeled away, the vulnerability and shame and utter rage, roiling hot and uncomfortable and _wrong_.

All things Morgause’s sorcerer had felt the moment Merlin had breached his mind.

“You are troubled, Emrys,” Kilgharrah rumbles. Merlin tries for a smile and ends up producing something more like a grimace.

“Is that so?”

“Don’t be coy with me.” The dragon gives Merlin a look. “So, crossed that line of yours at last, have you?”

Merlin jolts. “How did you-“

“It is inevitable, once you begin to love.” Kilgharrah’s golden eyes are shrewd. “’ _I kill for you, not for myself’_ , no?”

“I – I’m.”

_I am a monster,_ is what Merlin wants to say. But he does not. He has a feeling that Kilgharrah will understand anyway. The old beast has ever had a way of knowing things without being told.

Merlin remembers how he had stood here, not so long ago, righteous and so utterly sure in his assumed morality. He had refused to let Kilgharrah go, because – he hadn’t wanted to risk Kilgharrah taking revenge into his own hands. Because he had thought he would know the time, when the resentment would mellow into something calmer, when Kilgharrah had ceased to be a threat to himself and others.

But who had he been to judge? Had it ever been his choice to make?

He feels bile rise in his throat. Oh, how self-righteous he had been. When deep down he has been this – tyrant – who delves into others’ minds, who tortures and wrests and _takes_. It hasn’t been that terribly long, Merlin knows, but it feels as if it had been more than a lifetime ago.

He had been sure when he’d made his choice. _For Arthur, anything._ And that terrifies him.

Kilgharrah does not speak.

His heavy chains glint in the faint light, dark and almost claustrophobic, and something clenches deep in Merlin’s throat.

“What if I broke your chains?” Merlin blurts. Kilgharrah’s eyes narrow and he hisses as if he has seen something repugnant.

“I will not be some payoff for your perceived sins, _Emrys_.”

“It’s not that.” Merlin lowers the barriers to his mind, brief, hoping it will be enough to convince the dragon. Turmoil. That’s the only way to describe what he is feeling, like a leaf swept into sea in a storm. “Will you raze Camelot if I let you go?”

Kilgharrah hums. “Would you let me?”

Merlin presses hands against his aching eyes. “I don’t know.”

Broken chains, deceptively fragile-looking, lie abandoned across the cold stone of the underground cavern. Merlin spends the night on edge, ready to wrap the entirety of Camelot under his power if necessary, but Kilgharrah seems to have let go of his grudge, for now.

Merlin isn’t sure if he’s glad or disappointed.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you.  
> May you stay happy and stay safe! :)


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